


Straw Dogs

by Guede



Series: Intemperance [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Amorality, Because Scott's Already Dead, Bloodplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Everybody Is Morally Deficient, Film Noir, Gallows Humor, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Incest, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Murder Mystery, Plot Twists, Revenge, Rough Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, Tattoos, Torture, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the one who gets pulled back to Beacon Hills by a murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Prohibition era, but I'm not working particularly hard at rooting out all the anachronisms. Consider it more like movie Prohibition than real Prohibition.

_“Heaven and Earth are not partial. They do not kill living things out of cruelty or give them birth out of kindness. We do the same when we make straw dogs to use in sacrifices. We dress them up and put them on the altar, but not because we love them. And when the ceremony is over, we throw them into the street, but not because we hate them.”_

\--from Su Zhe’s commentary on the _Tao Te Ching_

_“Don’t let anybody kid you. It’s all personal, every bit of business. Every piece of shit every man has to eat every day of his life is personal. They call it business. OK. But it’s personal as hell.”_

\--Michael Corleone, _The Godfather_

* * *

Scott McCall’s body is found in the early hours of Tuesday morning. He’s so torn up that the man who finds him faints dead away, and the dogwalker who runs across the man fifteen minutes later is the one who actually calls it in.

Stiles gets into town in time for the funeral. The address on the invite sends him to the biggest church in Beacon Hills, which has him checking the little card a second time. But no, it’s the right place.

The parking lot is full, so he has to go two blocks down the street to find a space for his car. He’s heading up alongside the churchyard when he hears his name being called; he’d marked the stacked redhead but hadn’t paid her too much attention due to the wholesome stiff on her arm, but she’s waving at him. Then she unloops her arm from her man and hurries over. “Stiles?” she says. “Stiles Stilinski, right? It’s Lydia.”

“Lydia,” Stiles says. He blinks, then grins and spreads his hands so she can hug him or pinch his cheek or however close she feels like getting. “Lydia Martin, hey, you look…fucking fantastic. But then, you always did.”

What Lydia feels like doing is getting a double fistful of his suit jacket at the shoulders, pulling it like she’s going to do violence on his person, and then abruptly smoothing her hands down his front. “Stiles,” she says again, smiling, stepping back. Her boyfriend, husband, whatever is coming up fast behind her, looking decidedly unhappy, but he comes to heel like a dog when she cuts her hand at him. “My God, it’s actually you. You’re back in town.”

“You say that like you think I died,” Stiles says, and then smiles at her sharp blink. Then he looks up at her accessory. “Oh, hey, Jackson. So you two crazy kids stuck it out.”

“Stilinski.” Jackson Whittemore’s settled into his family’s wealth some since the last time Stiles saw him, wearing instead of preening in his fancy suits and gold watches, but his lip still curls the same way. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, my best friend’s dead,” Stiles says.

They go stiff like store mannequins. Lydia’s even got her hand up and crooked back over her shoulder, showing off the Italian-leather purse and the sapphires and pearls dripping from her wrist. Stiles laughs at them, then hefts his bouquet over his shoulder and continues on up the path.

He hears the clatter of heels but he makes Lydia catch up to him. “Stiles,” she says urgently. Her fingers pick at his sleeve. “Stiles, listen, I know—I know we weren’t exactly friends before—”

“No.” Stiles pauses at the entrance to show his card to the usher, then walks into the church.

It’s just about as he remembers it, all throwback stone and heavy carved wood, except it’s covered with flowers. Neither Scott nor his mom, when she was alive, were much for the Catholic religion, but somebody’s paid to deck the place out. The coffin’s way up at the front and a mass of people are in the way—that doesn’t surprise him, Scott was always a well-liked one, wherever he was, but he can pick out a lot more gold and glitter than a veterinarian in training would justify. And then there are the dark, slick suits, like rocks cutting up through the frothy ebb and flow of mourners.

“I know I was a bitch to you,” Lydia says, which gets his attention. She smiles prettily and tucks her rack up against his arm, leaning into him. “But you should be careful. You’ve been gone a while.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Stiles twists around so he can take her free hand, with a glance down the aisle to find Jackson—he’s leaning in the doorway, frowning but keeping his distance—and then lifts it to his lips. “You _were_ a bitch, Lydia, but I was a stupid kid in love,” he murmurs to her hand. “Let’s just call it even?”

He gives her hand a kiss and then steps properly back, with a friendly nod to Jackson. She jerks her hand down to clutch at her purse and then hastily tries to compose herself as a few people filter down towards them. She’s still giving him a look like she needs him to listen, but he turns away and starts working through the crowd.

A couple other people recognize him, but nobody that wants more than a commiserating pat or a handshake, thank God. He squeezes through them till he’s standing in front of the coffin, which, like everything else here, is screaming money, from its brass fittings to its solid mahogany sides.

There’s a huge pile of flowers around the base of the coffin and whatever’s holding it up. They’re surprisingly crunchy underneath, and the clouds of clinging, cloying scents that they send up make Stiles wonder if somebody spritzed them with perfume. He hears people start to comment and to gasp, but he just holds his breath and keeps going till he can get his hands on the lid.

It’s as heavy as it looks. He has to put his bouquet down to get it up and over, and he’s stepping back to shake out his arms when somebody grabs his left elbow.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” they say, squeezing hard.

Stiles’ bones grind together. He winces and looks over, and what he gets for that is a glowering, handsome man in his mid-twenties, hair as black as his suit, flashing a hint of fang. “Hey, have a little respect,” Stiles snorts, reaching over. He pats the man’s cheek, then pulls his arm free while he’s being gawked at. “This is a fucking funeral, not the circus. Keep your wolfsuit at home.”

“What—the _hell_ ,” the man finally says.

He makes another grab while Stiles is bending over to get his bouquet, but a woman a few years old than him bumps him out of the way. “Laura Hale,” she says, eyeing Stiles. “Derek, go get Peter.”

“Yeah, go get Peter,” Stiles parrots. The tight little way Derek purses his mouth proves his hunch right and he goes ahead and smiles as he’s checking his flowers over. They look fine, so he turns around to face the coffin. “Stiles Stilinski, Ms. Hale. Just saying bye to ol’ Scotty here.”

He sets the bouquet on top of what’s left of Scott’s hands, then leans against the lid for a moment, since he’s not getting pulled away. The undertaker did a pretty decent job stitching Scott back together, except for his jaw. But then, when you’re missing a huge chunk of it, even Stiles has to admit wire and modeling clay and pancake makeup’s not going to cut it. At least they didn’t bother trying to replace the eyes and just pulled the lids down.

When Stiles turns around, Laura Hale is still standing there. So is Derek, although over to the side, Stiles can spot a man working his way towards them, and there’s enough of a family resemblance to figure out who that is. “Stiles,” Laura says. “He said you used to be his best friend.”

“Yeah, I tried,” Stiles says, shrugging. He kicks his feet free of the flowers and goes around so he can get the lid closed again. “My dad and I moved away when we were still kids. Mom was sick and there was a specialist over in Chicago that we thought could help. Scott and I did the whole letter thing for a couple months, but you know, kids, short attention spans, we fell out of touch. Gotta say, I was surprised to find out he was still living here.”

Derek doesn’t relax but he starts to look interested, and not in the sense that he wants to know what Stiles’ insides look like. Laura is a little tougher, but after sizing him up, she just pushes by her brother and steps up to the coffin. Her hands shoot up and catch the lid just as Stiles is flipping it over. She holds it for a second, glancing under it, then slowly lowers the lid back into place.

“So Scott’s mom liked oleanders,” Stiles says. He scuffs his way out of the flowers and then leans against a railing to shake the crushed petals and leaves off his shoes. “Don’t judge, it’s a pretty flower.”

“We’re not judging,” comes a voice from behind. The man who’d been working his way over. Nicest suit of all, pleasant blue eyes, even pleasanter voice. “I’m so sorry that you had to be reunited this way, Stiles. Scott was a bright young man and we’re all—oh, I should introduce myself. I’m Peter Hale.”

He puts his hand out. Stiles cocks his head, watches Peter watch that, and then shrugs himself off the rail and takes it.

Peter has a perfectly middle of the road grip. Almost too middle of the road, and then Stiles looks up and catches the glint in Peter’s eye and knows the man is amusing himself by holding back. Well, fine, he can laugh if he wants. God knows Stiles is finding this all too ridiculous for words himself.

“Yeah, it wasn’t the best way to wake up, getting the telegram,” Stiles says. When their hands part ways, Peter doesn’t step back so neither does he. “So how did you know Scott?”

“I think everyone knew Scott in one way or the other. He was such a friendly, outgoing boy,” Peter says smoothly, nodding towards the other people. Most of them are studiously ignoring the whole conversation, but Lydia looks down just a beat slow, and then there’s a man way in the back, with a suit that looks borrowed, who’s outright staring. Peter pauses on that man, then swings back to Stiles with a mild smile on his face. “As for myself, I honestly didn’t know him well, but he helped my family on a few occasions. Since he didn’t have any living relatives of his own, it seemed a shame to let the poor boy go to a pauper’s grave.”

“Oh, so you paid for all of this?” Stiles glances up and around the church again. He slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, nodding. “It’s nice. He must’ve done something big for you to lay out this kind of money.”

Peter chuckles, shaking his head. “No, no, please let’s not make this into something like that. He was a good person. It’s so rare these days to run across those, and the world seems to give them so little reward for it, it was the least we could do.”

“Yeah. Yeah, well, generous of you,” Stiles says.

He catches Peter’s eye as he straightens up. Pulls at his tie, then slips a finger inside his collar to rub at where the shirt’s cutting into his neck. Peter flicks his gaze to there and Stiles can feel it burning over his skin. He smiles at Peter and tightens his tie, closing up the collar, and then leans in.

“You all still living out by the preserve?” Stiles says. “It’s been a while, but I think I remember your house. Huge thing, right?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. He’s tempted, for sure, and he’s appreciating, for double sure, but he senses something. When he smiles, it’s polite and distant, and paired with a loose roll of the shoulders that strains the sleek suit’s tailoring. “Yes. Will you be in town long, Stiles?”

“I have to wrap up a couple pieces of business,” Stiles says. He pauses to look over, where Laura and Derek have been edging to flank either side of his back, and then gives his tie another tug. Steps backwards and gets a stem under his heel and curses, kicking it away. Then he looks up at Peter. “Scott left me some of his things, apparently. That’s how I found out about him dying, actually—sheriff’s office sent me the telegram, then forwarded me a funeral card.”

“Ah,” Peter says, looking thoughtful. Then he looks at Laura, who’s smoothly switched from creeping up on Stiles to straightening a wreath. “Well, if there’s anything we can do.”

“Do you need a place to stay?” Laura says.

Stiles smiles and shakes his head, and, since Laura’s left him that opening, slides out past Peter and towards the aisle between the pews. “Nah, I got a room. Anyway, great funeral, thanks for throwing it.”

“You’re leaving?” Derek says, blinking. He actually trails Stiles for a few feet, till he’s abreast of Peter. And Peter doesn’t seem to move but he does something because Derek jerks to a stop like he’s a puppet on a string. “Service hasn’t even started yet.”

“Scott’s dead, he’s not going to care,” Stiles says. “As for me, well, it was a long train ride. I could use a nap.”

He doesn’t look back, even though Derek’s disbelieving snort is loud enough to get them a couple stares. That man Peter had been eyeing is now eyeing _Stiles_ , leaning up against the cathedral wall and crossing his arms so Stiles can glimpse a gun holster. He’s middle-aged, got dirty nails, and when Stiles throws him a salute, he blanches and ducks into a pew and pretends to read the hymnal.

The way out goes by Lydia, who is busy chatting with some other woman, but not so busy that she can’t slip Stiles a note. Jackson’s watching from further in the pew and when Stiles shrugs at him, Jackson jerks his head as if to snarl at him, then freezes. Then he doesn’t quite look at where Laura Hale’s plunged back into the mourners. His arm snakes up and then along the back of the pew so it can circle Lydia’s shoulders, and that’s what Stiles walks out on, the lovely young couple holding onto each other.

Once he’s back in his car, Stiles reads the note. It’s short, just a time that evening and the name of a place, which Stiles drives by a couple minutes later. Beacon Hills is just as small as he remembers, he thinks, turning off the main road.

* * *

Nobody answers when Stiles knocks on the door, as expected. He steps back and turns around and takes in the street for a few minutes, but it’s dull as dust, not even a squirrel moving. Given the crowd at the church, he figures the whole neighborhood must be out, so he goes on around the back.

Stiles isn’t exactly quiet as he jimmies up a window and obscures protection runes and slips into the kitchen, and that’s on purpose but nothing stirs. He takes a tour of the first floor and carefully disarms all the rooms, then does the same on the second floor till he hears a low, racking noise coming from one of the bedrooms. It sounds like somebody trying to clear a raw throat.

He pauses till he hears the noise again and can tell where it’s coming from. Then he pulls a little packet from his inside coat pocket and pours a fine line of red powder across that door, and finishes up the rest of the floor. Goes back downstairs and checks out the basement, which was partly furnished at one point, but which looks like somebody tore it up weeks ago and somebody else has been just picking around the pieces ever since. But the plumbing’s still intact, and there’s a big metal tub in the corner. The tub’s got traces of some stuff in the bottom, brownish stuff that flakes up and shows some veins when Stiles holds it up to the light.

Plant matter. Well, Stiles isn’t planning on brewing anything, so he rolls up his sleeves and gives the tub a good scrubbing. He moves it under the tap and leaves it to fill while he goes back upstairs.

The bedroom with the noises is—was—a girl’s bedroom, at some point. It looks like a tornado’s been through it and somebody with a cockeye and shaky hands has been trying to patch it up. Vanity with a cracked mirror but dust-free counter, bedspread with stitched-up rips, headboard with a clumsy coat of paint over filled-in bullet holes. 

Stiles goes around the bed and finds a man lying there on the floor. He reeks of alcohol and vomit, and as a matter of fact, there’s a relatively fresh puddle of the latter by his head. Stubble and the soiled clothes says he’s been here for a couple days.

He cracks an eye when Stiles leans over him. Doesn’t seem that surprised by the knife, _does_ seem surprised by the face. His arm goes out to grope for something under the bed in the middle of Stiles whipping the knife handle across his temple.

Turns out he was reaching for a rifle. It’s a beauty, but Stiles sucks it up and leaves it so he can drag the man down to the basement. He cuffs the man’s hands behind his back, then starts cutting the clothes off of him.

Only a couple minutes pass by before the man starts to stir, groaning and twitching, but when Stiles gives him some room, he just keeps doing that. There weren’t any bottles up in the room—or in the rest of the house, but Stiles remembers he didn’t check the trash—but he’s acting more than a little tanked. Stiles shrugs and goes back to getting his clothes off.

He’s in great shape for a drunk. Couple interesting scars, too—freshest are the scabbed claw marks on his left shoulder, like they were trying to push him off them. And, if Stiles is going to be honest, he’s a pretty attractive man under the grime. At least the view can only improve from here.

Stiles hooks a hand under one of his arms, grabs the back of his neck with the other, and then dunks him head-first into the filled tub.

One second, two, and then the man comes alive. Kicks out frantically at first, bucking his head against Stiles’ hand, like they all do. But then he abruptly switches gears, twisting sideways, and he almost slides to the end of the tub before Stiles gets hold of him. Drags him back, keeps him from getting leverage against the tub wall, but he’s so active he heaves out enough water that he’s almost clear of it when Stiles pulls him out and flips him onto his back.

The man chokes violently, then tries to turn over. Stiles lets him get his head to the side and spit up water, but puts a foot on his shoulder to keep his back flat. Takes a seat on the edge of the tub while he’s up, and turns on the tap to refill the tub.

“Christopher Argent?” Stiles says.

Wild eyes track across the ceiling, unfocused, and then snap onto Stiles’ face. The man goes still except to bend his legs so his feet are flat on the ground; Stiles sighs, shakes his head, and takes his knife from the hook over the tap. Smartly, the man does not try to flip himself up.

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles says. “I knew Scott.”

The man still looks a little fuzzy, but he’s back on earth enough to tense up at that. He works his jaw a few times, water dribbling out of the corners of his mouth.

“Come on, all right, we both know he was dating your daughter,” Stiles sighs. He flips the knife up in the air and catches it, and at the same time whacks his shoe heel into the side of Argent’s head. Puts the knife back and reaches down.

Argent snarls and jerks away, but he’s uncoordinated and disoriented. He actually runs himself into the tub, trying to get away. When he realizes his mistake he snaps his head back, but Stiles isn’t there, he’s hauling Argent up by the waist. Once gravity’s sunk Argent’s head beneath the water, Stiles throws his legs across the other man’s so he’s sitting on them and then pushes Argent down by the shoulders.

He can’t get all of Argent’s head underwater that way, and the tub is still filling up on top of that, but Stiles doesn’t want to drown the man. Just pushes hard enough to dunk him under whenever he starts getting his breath back.

It takes till Stiles’ shoulders and back and arms are aching, but Argent eventually slows down. His wiggling goes back to up and down instead of side to side and his gagging sounds less angry, more desperate. Once he manages to get his head high enough to suck a pop of air and he tries to say something too, but Stiles crowbars him back down with a forearm to his neck. His body jerks slower and slower, then stops.

Stiles immediately yanks up his head, jumping up at the same time, so when Argent bucks he just knocks back into Stiles instead of throwing him off. Then he grips Argent by the hair and forces him into the water again. Holds it till the air bubbles are coming up one by one instead of in a froth, then pulls him out.

This time he keeps hold of a shoulder, tilting Argent on his side so the water pools out of his nose and mouth. Argent shivers and coughs, then slumps down against the floor.

“Your daughter wasn’t at the funeral,” Stiles says.

Argent freezes. Then he arches his head forward. Stiles thinks he’s struggling and tightens his grip, but Argent just hacks up a couple globs of mucus-y water and spits it out. Then he laughs roughly.

“She’s dead,” he says.

Stiles pulls Argent over to face him and kneels next to him for a couple minutes. Argent stares back. Stops throwing up water, starts looking puzzled under the anger. He scans Stiles’ face like he’s committing it to memory, but stops in the middle of that and jerks his head aside, a flash of disgust going over his face. His arms flex and he starts to sit up, but he’s sensible enough to stop when Stiles’ hand shoots out and grabs his clawed shoulder.

“Then why is Scott dead?” Stiles finally asks.

Argent’s brows draw together. He’s still breathing hard, and he has to clear his throat before he can speak again. “What do you know?”

“You tell me,” Stiles says. Then he raises his arm and knocks his elbow against the tub. “Or I can keep dumping you in there, and we can do it the hard way.”

For a couple seconds Argent considers it. Then he pushes at his arms. When Stiles lets him sit up, he glances down and then stills, as if only now noticing where his clothes _not_ are. His head weaves a little and Stiles thinks about asking him how many drinks.

“Are you working for the Hales?” Argent asks.

Then again, knowing how many drinks won’t really do anything except satisfy Stiles’ curiosity, and Stiles has a date to get ready for. He sighs.

Argent abruptly kicks himself backwards. He almost gets out of reach, except his feet slip on the water everywhere. Stiles grabs an ankle, curses as Argent gives him a glancing kick on the arm, and then grabs that ankle too. Jerks him back, grabs his head, dunks him.

When Argent is too weak to struggle, Stiles yanks his head out of the water. He holds it up till Argent starts trying to talk, then pushes it back down.

He has to do that three more times—the man is _tough_ , Stiles will give him that—before Argent gets the point and just stops trying. Instead Argent just lets his head hang from Stiles’ hand, coughing feebly. When Stiles drags him away from the tub and lets go, he flops across the floor, limp and barely able to focus his eyes.

Stiles checks the time, then gets his knife. He cuts a length of rope from a bundle in one corner of the basement, makes a loop with a slipknot, and then pulls it over Argent’s head and tightens it around his neck. Argent sucks in a breath but doesn’t move, which just about lets him breathe.

The rope’s long enough so that once Stiles gets the cuffs off Argent, he can hold it and walk two steps to the towels and the clothes he’d set aside. He throws the towel to Argent, who just lets it soak in the drenched floor for a couple seconds. The man rubs his wrists, which are bleeding some from the cuffs, and stares at the towel, then at Stiles. Then at the towel.

“God, you _are_ drunk,” Stiles mutters. He picks up the towel and then goes over to Argent, who twitches and starts all through Stiles rubbing him down.

Halfway through, Argent musters up the will to twist over onto his belly. Then he goes limp again, panting into the floor, fingers splayed and scratching like he thinks he can dig away from this. Stiles rolls his eyes and tosses the towel aside, and then yanks on the rope till Argent inches close enough to the clothes that Stiles can stuff him into them. Just a shirt and pants, and they go damp as soon as they touch Argent, so that Stiles gives up on buttoning up the shirt the whole way because the way the cloth sticks to his hands is annoying. He kicks Argent back onto his belly, then sits on his back.

Argent bucks once, when Stiles is pulling his right arm behind his back, but it seems like reflex more than anything else, because he’s got his face pressed into the floor. Stiles chokes him anyway, waiting till both cuffs are back on before he reaches up and loosens the rope. He reties the knot so it won’t slip, but keeps the rope tight enough around Argent’s throat to choke him if he fights.

Stiles lays the rest of the rope down Argent’s spine, tugging up the handcuffs to meet it, and then makes a knot around the cuff links so Argent has to keep his hands no lower than the small of his back. He saves the rest of the rope for when they’re in the garage and he’s stuffed Argent into the trunk of his car, cutting it off and using it to tie the man’s ankles together. A rag knotted into Argent’s mouth, and then Stiles is ready to go.

He changes into a spare shirt and goes out to the front yard again. Still quiet and deserted. Stiles makes sure the house doesn’t look suspicious, then gets in his car and backs out.

* * *

Lydia wants to meet up at a local juke joint, which suits Stiles just fine but which seems a bit less classy than her diamond choker and furred coat collar. Stiles parks his car in a nearby alley and then walks over.

Considering it’s only two blocks long, the Beacon Hills entertainment district is pretty bustling for a weekday night. Stiles spots Laura Hale holding court in a café’s sidewalk seating, all dolled up in slinky satin, and, since he’s early, he strolls up and down the street to take in the offerings. Then he goes into a supper club next to the juke joint.

It’s the same building, and just as he’d guessed, the two places share a kitchen. He talks his way back there with the help of a pretty waitress, then slides over to the juke joint side and orders himself a drink.

He’s tickled to see that Lydia comes in the back way too, though the furtive way she’s looking around has him checking the bartender. Guy’s got both hands on the bar, wiping down the wood, so Stiles relaxes. When Lydia slips into the booth next to him, he pushes over her martini.

Lydia looks at it, then smiles. “You’ve been asking after me,” she says.

“Yeah, well, first loves leave the deepest wounds,” Stiles says expansively. He lifts both arms and hooks them over the top of the seat, and then grins when Lydia scoots forward so her back isn’t touching him. “So. Why’d you send me that telegram?”

She stops with her martini halfway to her mouth. Then she sets it very carefully down and turns to look at him.

“I didn’t send you the telegram, Jackson did,” she says, voice dropping. She has her hand fiddling around in her purse and when she realizes he’s clocked it, she tilts the purse so that he can see the amulet in her hand. “Listen, Stiles, things aren’t as friendly as they look.”

“Well, don’t know that they were ever actually that friendly, were they.” Stiles takes his arms down and pulls over what’s left of his whiskey. He swirls his glass and watches the ice clink and stick together. “I’ll admit asking you to marry me in front of the whole class put you on the spot, but you could’ve just said no. Having Jackson shove me into the mud was just unnecessary. Also, that was my one good suit.”

Lydia stares at him for a second. Then she cocks her head and pushes up against his side so he can smell fragrance wafting out of her hair, see the white of her throat. “Stiles,” she says, smiling, sharp as a knife. “Scott’s dead. Do you want to talk about old grudges or do you want to do something about it?”

Stiles looks at her, then sighs and takes a drink. “All right, I’ll bite. What the hell does Jackson want?”

“The smuggling wars are getting out of hand,” Lydia says, abruptly prim. She sits back and tucks her purse into her lap like she’s sitting at Sunday sermon. “Have you been reading the papers? Three dead bodies found in the preserve this month alone.”

“So rich boy couldn’t just spend his daddy’s money and had to get in on the action himself,” Stiles snorts, also sitting back. “Why do I care?”

“Jackson didn’t—” Then Lydia cuts herself off. That amulet of hers will handle sound but anybody looking over would still be able to see she’s getting herself worked up. She takes a deep breath, her breasts quivering, and then leans against Stiles again. “It wasn’t Jackson, it was Scott, all right? Jackson just—he didn’t know what he was getting into, he just wanted to know what Scott was doing. He followed McCall a couple times and now we’ve got to get out of town.”

Stiles nods to show he’s listening. He sips some more whiskey. Stretches his legs out under the table and watches a couple arguing at the corner of the bar. The girl’s not nearly half as upset as she makes out, which makes a little more sense when the guy storms out and the bartender immediately serves her a non-standard cocktail, then doesn’t charge for it.

“Scott was dating Allison Argent,” Lydia adds, obviously reluctant. “Do you remember her?”

“Vaguely,” Stiles says. The girl and the bartender touch fingers around the cocktail glass stem, and then she twists half-way around, leaning an elbow on the bar and flashing her legs at whoever walks in the door.

“Her grandfather’s been trying to muscle the Hales out for years, and he’s stepped up his game lately. He had Scott killed because Scott walked in on something he was doing, and he’s going to go after Jackson and me next,” Lydia says. She pauses, then preens her shoulders so the pale bob of her cleavage brings Stiles’ eyes back to her. “I have it on good authority that Erica Reyes has to shave three times a week, or else she’d be covered in hair.”

Stiles snickers and flicks his eyes up to Lydia’s face. “Jealous? That’s new.” He waits for the protest to rise in her eyes. “Looks good on you. Stupid plays, not so much. You look even more beautiful than when I left, Lyds, but that’s not going to make me forget Scott was mauled by a werewolf. I saw the crime scene photos.”

Lydia’s hands snap tight around her purse at the w-word. She takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“Yeah, so Jackson’s one too,” Stiles says casually.

“He didn’t kill Scott,” Lydia hisses. She pries a hand off her purse and wraps it around her martini glass. The first time she tries to raise it, a little slops over the rim. She grimaces and her eyes flick around the room, and then she lifts the glass and drinks deep. Then she lowers it just enough to speak. “But he saw it happen, Stiles. He knows who killed Scott, and he’s willing to tell you if you just get us out of here.”

“Why do you want to leave?” Stiles asks, looking at her. Then he sighs and grabs her wrist, and makes her put the martini back on the table. “All right, let’s not ruin my suit _again_ , it’s a fair question. You could just go to the Hales.”

“They washed their hands of Scott when he wouldn’t stop seeing Allison.” Lydia deliberately lifts her fingers one by one from the glass, then sniffs and jerks her hand away when Stiles lets go of her. “Besides, who’s to say they weren’t involved?”

Stiles looks sharply at her. “Well, that was a very nice funeral they threw for Scott,” he says. “Also, they’re a little busy trying to kill Gerard’s men to be helping him out?”

“I’m not saying they _helped_ him,” Lydia says, with another delicate sniff. She turns her wrist back and forth, looking at it, and then puts her hand back on her purse. “But they could’ve helped Scott and they didn’t.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. He finishes off the rest of his whiskey and pushes his glass away.

“He still talked about you, you know,” Lydia adds. Her voice is a little less certain, for all that she’s got the clever arch to her brow and the touch of coy to her half-smile. “He was always saying, if I get in trouble, I’ll call Stiles. And he left a note for you. Jackson found it afterwards.”

“Well, then, sounds like I should be talking to Jackson,” Stiles says, looking over.

As much as she tries, Lydia can’t hide her slight sag of relief. But if she realizes, she doesn’t give a hint of it. Just gives him a brisk, businesslike nod. “Of course. He would’ve approached you first, except—”

“Doesn’t have the legs for it,” Stiles snorts.

Lydia’s mouth quirks, half-amused, half-disgruntled, and it’s about the most human he’s seen her since returning. She pulls a few bills out of her purse and drops them by her glass, then starts to rise.

“Hey,” Stiles says. He watches her shade over her nerves with an icy smile. “Why do you think I could get you two out?”

“Your father,” Lydia says, frowning. She pauses, then widens her smile to compensate for her lack of knowledge. “I’d heard he died, but surely his friends—”

“Oh, right. No, they’ll be willing to do me a few favors, son of the dead hero and all,” Stiles says. He reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I was going to pull some crazy stunt. It _has_ been a while, and Scott was my friend and all, but we didn’t run with the same crowd.”

Lydia nods in understanding. Then she glances at his hand on her arm. He removes it with an apologetic shrug and she gives him a smaller smile. It’s still amused but it’s maybe a little fond, too.

Then she makes her exit, again going through the back. The bartender comes over to see if Stiles wants another drink and Stiles decides not, but he takes his time leaving. Stops to flirt with Erica—if she shaves as often as Lydia, she’s damn good with a razor because there’s not a single mark on her legs—and settle his tab with the bartender. He walks out on the man shuffling delightedly through his tip while Erica watches.

It’s a cool night, but the sky is clear and there’s no wind so it’s not unpleasant. Stiles takes the front door and loiters on the street for a few minutes, taking in the air. Then he heads back to his car.

He’s just turned into the alley when he stops and sighs. “Yep?”

About five seconds pass by before Derek Hale finally slides out of the shadows, coming up on Stiles’ left. He’s changed since the funeral, ditching the tie and swapping the black suit for a very, very dark grey one. “I thought you were looking into your inheritance,” he says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I said I was going to take a nap. And then it was too late to go to the sheriff’s office, and hell, it’s not like anybody’s going to die if I go tomorrow, is it?”

Derek shrugs and walks around Stiles. “This your car?” he says, jerking his chin at it.

“So?” Stiles walks around _him_ and then gets his keys out. He opens the driver’s side door and then hangs his arm over it and looks at Derek. “It a crime to rent a car?”

It’s nearly pitch-dark in the alley, but a glimmer from the streetlights catch on Derek’s teeth. He smiles and leans against the car. Puts his hand down on the hood, rubs it back and forth, and then brings his hand around to look at his fingertips, which now are dirty _and_ have claws.

“Yes, I know about werewolves,” Stiles sighs. Then he sniffs.

Derek’s head snaps around. He frowns like he’s trying to engrave the furrows into his forehead, watching Stiles sniff, and then his eyes flick sideways like he’s just stopped them from rolling when Stiles pulls up the side of his coat and smells it.

“I know it’s still a podunk town, but there’s a couple interstates, you’d think even out here people could get decent smokes.” Stiles strips his coat off and gives it another whiff, then leans down to toss it into the backseat. Then he stands back up. He pulls out his own box and shakes out a cigarette, offers it to Derek. Takes the sneering lip lift as a no and then lights up. “So what? Look, if it’s about back at the church, sorry if I shocked anybody, but my fucking best friend is dead.”

That gets him a skeptical sideways look. Stiles catches it, snorts a smoke ring at it, and then takes the cigarette from his mouth.

“What, were you his best buddy too?” Stiles snaps. “Are we going to fight now because you’re mad I showed up? Because look, I know I wasn’t around, you can have the title.” 

“We weren’t friends,” Derek says, blinking. Then he grimaces. He pushes himself off the car and steps up so he’s just on the other side of the car door. “I mean, sure, we knew each other. And Scott was—he wasn’t bad. I just…I don’t think he liked me much.”

Stiles drags hard on his cigarette, then realizes he’s at the filter. He tosses the butt at the brick wall opposite them, then shakes out another cigarette. “So what, you feel you gotta make up for it post-mortem? Think you’d better go have a chat with his grave, in that case.”

Derek’s nostrils flare some from the smoke. Most werewolves aren’t big on cigarettes and cigars, and especially not the Turkish cut Stiles carries, but he stays put and squints through the clouds.

“You’re really upset about it,” he finally says. “Him being dead, I mean.”

“Give the genius a prize,” Stiles says. He starts to light another cigarette, then snaps shut the lighter and just shoves it into his pocket. Then he starts to duck like he’s getting in the car.

Before he can, Derek rounds the door and then grabs his arm. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he says. He pauses and swallows like the words left something in his throat. “You were acting a little off, and…he helped out my family. And on top of that, how he died—that was to get back at us. We’re not just going to let that go.”

“And I’m so lucky to get the hands-on demonstration, huh,” Stiles says, looking down at Derek’s grip on him.

Derek jerks his hand back, then grimaces again. He shuffles his shoulders under the nice suit like a guy who’s not used to this dance. “Sorry. Just—look, you know, what Peter said about if there’s anything we can do. We owe Scott, so…”

“So I’m his widow now?” Stiles says.

A flash of blue goes through Derek’s eyes, so quick that one could take it for backlight from a car’s passing headlamps. Then he shakes his head, smiling, a little teeth showing. “When you’re flirting with my uncle?”

“And Scott’s body’s not even cold yet, oh, horror. Except he looked pretty damn stiff to me.” Stiles pulls at his collar. Doesn’t play around with it like he did with Peter, just undoes the top button and then leaves it to take off his cuff-links. He sticks those in his pocket and shrugs off his suspenders. “Your uncle’s got a movie star face. Acts like it, too.”

Derek tightens up at the first part, starts and then laughs at the second. He steps back, not like he’s offended, but just getting a better view. “You really were Scott’s friend? It’s just—you’re not a lot like him.”

“What, because I mouth off? I know, Scott was always telling me that was going to get me into trouble.” Stiles shrugs and looks down, then back up at Derek. “Well, life’s funny like that. So if you’re not going to drag me into that dark corner over there and smash me over the head, I think I’m going to get back to my hotel room.”

“Already?” Derek says, brows up. When Stiles does likewise, Derek shrugs and looks at the hustle and lights beyond the alley mouth. “You got your nap, didn’t you? Or do you just leave early from everything?”

“I leave when it looks like it’s going to be too much hassle. Life’s also short, you know, no point in sticking around if you’re done.” Stiles puts his hand on the driver’s seat and ducks so his shoulder’s through the door. “Or if there’s no action. Same thing to me.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. Stiles smiles, gives him a second, and then bends to get his head past the top of the car, and suddenly Derek’s got him yanked up against the back passenger door, hands fisted in Stiles’ shirt, knee between Stiles’ legs, mouth all over Stiles’ mouth.

He kisses like he’s got something personal against all the years Stiles has spent without Derek’s tongue in his mouth. Which is not a bad thing, hell, no, but Stiles likes to give what he gets, so he knots one hand in Derek’s hair and drags till Derek bends his head back. Chases after, and gets his other hand inside Derek’s coat, under the man’s suspenders. Pulls the elastic back and lets it snap, and while Derek’s snarling and flinching, Stiles twists his head around and drags his teeth across the line of Derek’s jaw and then down onto his throat.

Derek stiffens. Stiles feels claws poke through his shirt and he laughs, pushes into them, rocks his hips _hard_ into Derek. He misses getting his lip bitten off by a hair. Those claws curl into his shirt and slash up the front as he drops to his knees, looking up at the long fangs and glowing eyes. He laughs and slaps Derek’s wrists out of his way, and then gives Derek a fast, messy blowjob.

Spit smears down his chin. Derek’s staggering around so Stiles has to shuffle around on his knees after him, till finally Derek just gets up against the damn car and lets him suck. He has to smack his hand against Derek’s left knee when it wobbles, force it back straight, and when he feels come sliding down his throat, he pulls off Derek’s cock so he can lick off the last drop. Lets his tongue hang out for a second so Derek can see it, then gets up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Fuck,” Derek rasps, staring at him. He’s still shaking a little, his claws clattering against the car, though Stiles is pleased to see the man remembered to not scratch. His eyes are glowing, but soft, hazy, like fireflies through muslin. He hitches up when Stiles reaches towards him instead of hitting out.

Stiles runs his thumb over Derek’s jaw and off onto the man’s throat, exactly where his teeth had gone, though of course those marks have vanished. Then he steps back and rubs his mouth again.

“You know, I think that was a lot better than me going back to the hotel and getting drunk off my ass,” Stiles says, and he grins. “Thanks, Derek, think I feel up to turning in early like a good boy.”

He turns around and get in the car. Derek makes a noise that could be trying to call after him, trying to curse him, or just trying to see if the man’s vocal cords still exist, but whatever it is, it’s weak and faltering, and when Stiles looks in the side mirror, Derek’s off the car. Stiles shrugs and starts the engine, and pulls away while Derek is still straightening out his clothes.

* * *

“So I know you’ve got to be sober, if you were with it enough to keep quiet around Derek,” Stiles says, opening the trunk.

Argent is still pretty much how Stiles left him, with the exception that he’s not making gagging noises. Actually, he’s dead silent as Stiles pulls him out, heaving him up by the shoulders and then dragging him off to the side. Then he looks around and he makes a sharp, surprised noise.

“What, you think I was going to take you to my hotel? When somebody sealed up your house so nice and all?” Stiles shuts the trunk and then gets his suit jacket out of the car. “Don’t worry, I put all the runes back and you’re boxed in nice and tight again. You needed a little air, it’s not healthy to stay in all the time, but now it’s time to get back to business.”

At that point Argent starts fighting. He can’t do a lot, especially once Stiles gets hold of the rope running between his hands and his throat, but he puts up more than a token effort. Stiles ends up kicking him a couple times in the stomach before they can get inside the house.

Having the breath knocked out of him keeps Argent down for a minute or so, but he’s starting to thrash around again when they go past the basement door. He goes limp, staring after the door, and that lets Stiles get him into the kitchen and up into a chair. Then Stiles takes out his knife. He slides it between Argent’s legs and up by his crotch, next to the femoral artery, and then pulls the gag out of the man’s mouth.

Argent wrenches his jaws a couple times, working out the stiffness, and then drops his head back against the chair, staring up at Stiles. “Do I have to stab you?” Stiles says.

“No,” Argent says, so rough he’s barely intelligible.

“Great.” Stiles withdraws the knife and turns around. He turns on the lights and then pokes around till he figures out where everything else.

He gets a pot of coffee started and pours a glass of water while he’s at it, which he brings back along with a couple aspirin. Argent presses his lips together so tightly that they almost disappear and Stiles sighs.

“Do I have to hold your nose till you open up?” he says.

Argent inhales sharply through said body part. His eyes sweep over the pills in Stiles’ palm and then Stiles’ face. Then he grimaces his way through prying his mouth open.

Stiles pops in both aspirin at the same time, then holds the glass to Argent’s mouth till he drinks all of it. He puts the glass down on the kitchen table and then perches on the table edge. “So why are you drinking?”

For a second it looks like that water might be coming straight back up. Then Argent snorts. He moves his head and neck side to side against the chair and the rope around his neck inches down enough to show cherry-raw skin underneath. “Well, my daughter died about a week ago, and my wife a few months before that,” he says. “How do you know Scott?”

“He’s my best friend. Well, was.” Stiles shrugs. “Still getting used to talking about him in the past tense, excuse me.”

Argent tilts his head as if a change in angle might help. Well, with the way he’s squinting at the lights—and Stiles didn’t turn on all of them—maybe it would. He’s certainly more talkative. “I’m sorry about him,” he says. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Meaning,” Stiles says.

“He wouldn’t—he and Allison never should have started to see each other,” Argent says. His voice thickens and it’s got nothing to do with the rope around his neck. “I told him—I tried to talk to him, to her, but they wouldn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, Romeo and Juliet, skip to where she’s dead but I didn’t hear about any funeral,” Stiles says.

Argent clams up, his jaw closing so abruptly there’s an actual click. His eyes go hard and dark and he flattens his shoulders when Stiles gets up but otherwise doesn’t move. He’s looking for the knife and Stiles lets him look as he takes the coffeepot off the stove, pours himself a mug, drinks it. Looks into the icebox, which has soured milk and a rotten head of cabbage and some unidentifiable greyed meat.

Well, Stiles’ shirt is already a total loss. He rolls up his sleeves again and cleans out the icebox, then sets the garbage bag by the door to the garage so he’ll remember it. Then he goes back and he takes Argent by the shoulders, and pulls him off the chair.

“My father killed Scott,” Argent spits out. He’s choking and he twists as Stiles hauls him towards the basement door, trying to arch so the rope’s not pulling on his throat. “My father, Gerard, he—”

“Heard that already, thanks,” Stiles grunts.

“Then what are you doing here?” Argent coughs, hard enough to make his face redden. He nearly strangles himself jerking away when Stiles tries to grab his neck, and Stiles ends up having to grab his hair to hold his head so he won’t crush his own windpipe. “What—what do—want? I already—lost—”

“Wife and daughter, got that.” Stiles pulls him down the stairs and then to a relatively clear corner of the basement, near some exposed piping. He lets Argent go and tests the pipes.

They seem solid enough, so he unties the rope from the handcuffs and then reties it around one pipe. Then he searches around till he finds a bucket and a sleeping bag. He brings over both and pushes the bucket at Argent, then unrolls the sleeping bag. Then he crawls over it and clamps his hand down on Argent’s arm, holding the man still while he jerks open Argent’s fly.

“I’m not sleeping here, so you’d better take a piss now or you’ll be smelling it all night,” Stiles says. He sits back on his heels, then laughs at Argent’s expression. “Ah, no, I got my blowjob for the night.”

Argent just gapes at him for a couple seconds. Stiles shrugs and lets him, and busies himself with checking that there aren’t any sharp edges or other useful things within Argent’s reach. And since he’s got the time, he does a little tidying up from earlier. 

He’s wringing out the mop when he gets a whiff of something acrid, and then he hears the urine hitting the bucket. Stiles has to admit he’s impressed Argent didn’t ask for his ankles to be untied, and when he goes back over, he’s even more impressed that Argent managed to not tip the bucket over, bound hand and foot and hungover.

“Why do you want to know what happened to my daughter?” Argent asks, just as Stiles is picking up the bucket. He’s backed himself up against the pipe, his knees drawn up to his chest, even though he’s off the sleeping bag and on bare concrete that way.

Stiles puts the bucket down. “I want to know why Scott died,” he says.

Argent nods slowly, but he doesn’t say anything. He tenses as Stiles comes over, but he doesn’t kick out, so maybe the aspirin’s helping his commonsense come back.

“He was a werewolf,” Argent says, right as Stiles is squatting in front of him. He purses his lips. “You knew that.”

“And I know your family calls yourself hunters, too, though lately it just seems like you’re hunting your own,” Stiles says. He snorts when Argent flinches. “Well, I guess those guns don’t pay for themselves, and smuggling booze is pretty lucrative.”

“I didn’t—” Argent starts, jerking up. Then he hisses and crushes himself back against the pipe. “You wouldn’t give a damn, but that was all my father. I just—my family, all we ever wanted to do was protect people.”

“You should’ve gotten along with Scott, then,” Stiles says, watching Argent’s eyes snap with anger and disbelief. “He was always into that. Protecting people. Didn’t matter what they’d done, if it wasn’t a fair fight, he’d jump right in. He hit me a few times, to get me to back down.”

That stops Argent in the middle of whatever mental rampage he’d been going on. He stares at Stiles like they’ve just met. His arms move and the cuffs rattle against the pipe; he starts, but absently, just reflex, and keeps staring at Stiles.

“Oh, by the way, I know nobody’s going to bother checking on you,” Stiles says. “Good job, you’re definitely helping out when even your father doesn’t give a damn if you disappear.”

Argent’s eyes widen. His mouth drops open and he sucks in a harsh breath, and whatever the hell he was going to yell at Stiles gets lost in the rag Stiles ties into his mouth. Stiles also deflects Argent’s kick so it just ends up knocking Argent’s head into the pipe. Then he gets up. He takes out another packet of red powder and uses it to draw a circle around Argent, then takes the bucket and goes upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oleanders mean ‘beware,’ and are also poisonous.
> 
> I really wanted them all in nice suits all the time. Especially Peter. So Prohibition.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a busy day, so when Stiles does finally get back to his hotel, he strips off and then falls right asleep. When he wakes, it’s still morning but it’s late enough that the hotel’s stopped serving breakfast. Which is fine with him, he needs to run a few errands anyway.

He finds out from the concierge where he can get some decent shirts made, because he hasn’t brought nearly enough, and orders a half-dozen. There’s a diner down the street from the tailor’s and Stiles has his breakfast there, smiling when Erica turns up as a waitress. She remembers him enough to tip him a wink as she serves up his plate, then sashays back down the counter, past the man at the church with the terrible suit.

Of course, the man isn’t wearing a suit anymore. The plain workaday clothes are probably his own, given how beat they look, and he does a better job pretending to be reading the financial section as Stiles eats up and then heads out.

There’s a beautiful black car waiting for him at the curb, with a beautiful woman leaning up against it and powdering her nose. Laura looks up and smiles like they’ve known each other for years, then pushes off the car and opens the door to shotgun. “Come on, you’ll be late,” she says.

Stiles shrugs, stops to clock his reflection in the windows, and then gets in, straightening his tie. “Thanks,” he says.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” Laura reaches over and gently but firmly pushes his hand down from his tie. “No need to stand on ceremony, Stiles. The police give you any problems, you can just come tell me.”

“Well, that’s very generous of you,” Stiles says, relaxing in his seat. It’s good leather, kept up, and feels like a comfortable hand wrapping around his back. Definitely not standard.

Laura glances over at him, and then keeps looking over. She finally starts to say something, but they’ve already gotten to the police station—small town, light traffic—so she has to laugh to keep him from getting out right away. It’s more than a little strained. “You’re very…comfortable here,” she says. “Considering you’ve been away so many years.”

“Well, hasn’t changed too much, has it?” Stiles steps onto the curb and then, when it’s clear she’s going in with him, waits for her to round the car and join him. “Same old Beacon Hills. That’s even Deputy George over there, isn’t it? Looks just like I remember him.”

They go up the steps and into the station, where Peter shakes out the paper he’d been reading, folds it and then rises to air-kiss Laura’s cheeks. Then he turns to Stiles. His hair’s a little damp and his cheeks look silky smooth the way only a very recent barber’s trip can do.

“Stiles,” he says warmly. He leans in and for a second Stiles wonders if he’ll get the air-kiss treatment too, but Peter just smirks and turns it into a slightly over-friendly bow. “How are you? Derek said you were a little more shaken than we thought.”

“Oh, well, hard trip, bad food on the train, funeral to go to right off it.” Stiles catches a policeman’s eye and asks to see the sheriff, then smiles back at Peter. “But a good night’s sleep can do wonders. Speaking off, how’s Derek? He seemed like he was set for a fun evening, did he ever get home?”

Laura looks sharply at him. “He did. Why, were you expecting him not to?”

“Nah. Just sounded like he was really going to party, stay out and paint the town red, all that,” Stiles says. He blinks when Laura suddenly laughs. “That unusual for him?”

“It’s—” Laura starts, voice dripping with sarcasm. But then she catches Peter’s eye, and then the sheriff comes bustling out to greet Stiles.

He claims to remember Stiles from back when his father held the job, going on about little boy Stiles wandering around and pestering all the deputies, but he gets Stiles’ favorite toy mixed up with Scott’s and talks about how he’d slip Stiles saltwater taffy, which Stiles has always hated. But Stiles swallows his irritation and puts up with it, even to the point of not stabbing the windbag for an unnecessary backslap.

It’s a cleared throat from Peter that finally stops the sheriff. The man looks at Peter, then laughs a little nervously and turns back to Stiles. “Well, we could be here all day, but I’m sure you want to get this over with as quickly as possible,” he says. His face contorts as he remembers exactly why Stiles is here. “A sad, sad thing, what happened to him. Everyone liked Mr. McCall.”

“Any leads on getting who did it?” Stiles asks.

The sheriff blinks hard, like he can feel Peter and Laura’s gazes raking over his unprotected back. “It was an animal attack, Mr. Stilinski. Probably a mountain lion. I—unless you’re asking whether we’re still trying to find the damn thing that killed him?”

“I was more thinking whether it was rabid or not,” Stiles says. “Isn’t anybody worried it’ll strike again?”

“Oh! Oh, well, yes, we’re considering that, and of course we sent off for testing, but in the meantime, let me assure you I’ve got my best men on patrol. We’ll shoot the son of a bitch, don’t you worry,” the sheriff says, immediately relaxing. “But here, let’s all just go into the room over there and give you a little privacy while you…”

He trails off, looking at Peter and Laura, as if just realizing the contradiction in his words. Stiles mentally strangles the fool while smiling uncertainly at Peter, whose lips tighten even as his eyes eat it up. “Right, I’m not sure how you want to do this,” Stiles says. “I haven’t had a lot of people leave me things before. Does the lawyer come in—”

“Well, I’m happy to come whenever it makes you feel more comfortable,” Peter says.

Stiles shrugs and waves his hand towards the room the sheriff points out. Peter tilts his head, then steps forward. Laura stares at his back for a second, then at Stiles. Then she remembers to put her smile back on, and she slips back towards the door, murmuring something about lovely to see Stiles again, call her any time, she has something to do now with a hat.

“You’ve checked in on me,” Peter says, once they’re alone in the room with the box of Scott’s things.

“You mean I drove through town and saw your shingle,” Stiles says. He pulls open the box flaps and just looks inside for a few seconds.

Peter’s quiet, though Stiles senses the man leaning in to also look. 

And then Peter leans back almost as quickly. He’s the best of their family at acting but Stiles still picks up a whiff of disappointment from him. And when Stiles sits down and starts pulling out old toys and school workbooks, Peter looks downright bored. He takes a seat in the other chair and glances at each object that Stiles pulls out, but he’s obviously going through the motions.

“I can’t believe he kept this,” Stiles says, holding up part of a stethoscope. “He used to play doctor with it. He always wanted to go into medicine, you know. His mom was a nurse and she’d bring home swabs and things, and he’d try to doctor all the animals in the neighborhood.”

Peter smiles mechanically. He uncrosses his legs and crosses them the other way.

Stiles takes out a small mirror, frowns, and then puts it back in. “Huh. Must be his mother’s.”

“No doubt,” Peter says, every line of his body and every inch of his voice aching with disinterest.

“And this,” Stiles says, picking out a half-unstitched lacrosse ball. “Scott had terrible lungs. Asthma, right, but he signed up for lacrosse anyway.”

“Stiles, are you here to avenge Scott?” Peter says, rolling his eyes.

“Well, that’s a question,” Stiles says after a moment. He tosses the ball back into the box and then sits back in his chair. “Avenge? What are we, in the comics now? Do I look like somebody who’s going to run around in the woods shooting mountain lions?”

Peter opens his mouth, then turns his head away. He laughs a little under his breath. Folds his hands over his belly and looks up at Stiles.

“You really need to come up with something better, now that they’re printing photos of the bodies in the papers,” Stiles says. He pushes the box aside so he and Peter don’t have anything in the way. “You tell me, do I need to avenge him?”

“Gerard Argent’s been a thorn in our side for years and years,” Peter says after a moment. He unfolds his hands and sits up to put them on the table, then leans over them. His voice drops and turns fervent with long-suppressed anger. “And that was before he killed my sister and brother-in-law by burning them in their own house. Don’t pretend you didn’t hear about it, I know your father called back to the station here and offered to help.”

“And you know they turned him down, because they don’t call the shots around here, and you decided it was better to just start a backwoods war.” Stiles sits up and folds his arms over the table. “Or Laura did?”

Peter cocks his head. His mouth twists into a smile. “So there are limits to your knowledge.”

“I wasn’t in town, do I look like a goddamn mind reader?” Stiles says. He drums his fingers against the table, then looks up. “Why wasn’t anybody around to help Scott out? And if you want me to not act like an idiot, you’d better not either. I saw the crime scene photos, it’s not like he died right away. He must have been howling for help, don’t tell me none of you heard him.”

“We did hear him.” Peter’s eyes flick down. He presses his lips together, then sits back and runs his hand through his hair. His feet shift around and his breath stutters a little, like he’s trying to find the words. “Believe me, we heard him. But we couldn’t—we weren’t able to find him in time. They didn’t kill him where he was found, they did it in some bolthole of Gerard’s and then they dumped his body.”

Then he falls silent. He pulls himself up and rests his arms on his knees, and looks at the floor. His head cocks when Stiles gets up, but when he sees Stiles is just putting all the things back in the box, he goes back to looking at the floor.

“How’d they get him over there in the first place?” Stiles says. “Scott was—not the most street smart kid, unless he’d changed a lot, but he wasn’t completely stupid.”

“His girlfriend,” Peter immediately says, looking up. “Allison Argent, Gerard’s granddaughter. She wasn’t at the funeral, you know. She hasn’t been seen since the night of Scott’s death. No doubt she left as soon as her job was done.”

“You think she was only in it to get him?” Stiles says.

Peter somberly nods. “It’s…hard to believe, I know, but it’s a favorite strategy of their family’s. They’ve tried it before, on Derek. You know, he tried to warn Scott about Allison, because he recognized the signs, but unfortunately your friend was very deeply in love.”

“‘For love is blind all day, and may not see.’” After a moment’s pause, Stiles folds down the box flaps. He rests his hands on them and looks at Peter.

Who is looking back in surprise. He starts when he realizes, then smiles so his smooth charm slicks right over him, drowning out any speck of uncalculated emotion. “Quite. I…I am very sorry, Stiles, and I understand if you’re determined to see the murderers brought to justice. But you also need to see that bringing this to the authorities’ attention—”

“I hate that they’re going to get away with it, but I know it’s not a good idea to let other people realize werewolves exist,” Stiles says. “You have enough trouble just with hunters, let alone the army or something like that.

Peter is obviously expecting more resistance. He closes his mouth, blinking, and then smiles warmly. “Thank you. Yes, that’s true—and what _will_ be true is that they will not get away with it. You have my word, Stiles, Scott’s death will not be in vain.”

Stiles knows he looks skeptical, but he musters up a vague smile for Peter. The other man comes around the table and reaches over the box to lay his hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“I promise,” he says. He pauses, then glances towards the door. “I suppose we should give the honorable sheriff back his room.”

He opens the door for Stiles, then falls in a half-step behind as they walk out of the station. It’s a bright, sunny day, and the glint off a passing car’s windshield makes Stiles stop and squint. Stiles might sway back a bit too, because he feels the press of Peter’s hand against his back for a second.

Peter turns to him and then hesitates, looking over Stiles. His eyes pull in the light and turn bright blue, and when another car drives by them, they nearly glow. “I do regret that this is why you’ve come back to Beacon Hills,” he says. “I wish my family and I could have done more.”

“I wasn’t ever planning to come back here, to be honest,” Stiles says, looking down the street. He hears Peter breathe in a little sharply but doesn’t turn back. “Well—”

“Can I offer you lunch?” Peter says. “Or at least a ride back to your hotel?”

“Thanks, but I need to head over there anyway.” Stiles nods at a shop across the street. “My razor’s broken, some porter slammed around my bag.”

Peter shrugs. “I’ve no pressing appointments. I’d be happy to wait for you. And perhaps we could discuss how you might be able to lend a hand in seeing things to their proper end.”

“What, because my father was sheriff once?” Stiles says, and then he laughs. “Maybe you should tell me what you really did to Allison. I’m not my father, you know.”

Peter looks sharply at him. His eyes are still very blue, but they’ve gone icy. He steps away from Stiles and slides his hands in his pockets. The lines of his suit hold up to that in ways that Stiles can’t get from the best tailors in Chicago.

“I haven’t seen the girl,” Peter finally says. Then he turns and smiles at Stiles. “Well, if you insist. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again.”

He walks down the steps and a car pulls up to meet him so he almost doesn’t have to break stride to get into it. Peter gives Stiles another look as the car drives away, so Stiles gives him a vigorous wave. There’s just enough time to see Peter’s face go blank with complete incomprehension before the car disappears around a corner.

Stiles snorts, then hefts the box under his arm and heads over to the shop.

* * *

The shop is next to a little café, which is where Stiles gets the soup and bread for Argent. The man doesn’t look like he’s slept much. He _has_ gotten his ankles untied and the piece of rope’s lying just inside the ring of red powder.

Stiles breaks the ring with his foot, then tosses the rope to the side and carries in the food. Argent’s backed up against the pipe so Stiles takes out his gag and then sits cross-legged on the sleeping bag. “Need the bucket again?”

“Yes,” Argent says. Curt, head and shoulders stiffly frozen so he’s looking Stiles right in the eye.

When Stiles gets up to get it, Argent’s eyes flick to the food. He shifts his legs, then laboriously works himself onto his knees as Stiles puts the bucket down.

“My father shot Allison,” Argent says. He tucks his chin down and his shoulders twist like he’s going to heave, but he just makes a short, strangled noise and then looks back up at Stiles. “She’d turned. Happy?”

“Happiness is a tricky thing,” Stiles says. He’s already taken off his suit-jacket, but now he removes his cuff links and rolls up his sleeves. “So Scott wasn’t an alpha, so it couldn’t have been him who bit her.”

Argent starts and then stares at him, till Stiles has him half-up, and then Argent lets out a sharp, protesting noise and jerks his feet under him like he’s going to fight. Stiles yanks at the man’s leash, then holds onto that and the handcuffs as he bends Argent over the bucket. A furious red flush crawls up the back of Argent’s neck, but it’s not more than a second or two before he relaxes enough to piss.

“So was she actually trying to kill him, or was this some sort of preventative thing?” Stiles asks.

“Can you just shoot me?” Argent snarls.

Stiles shoves him back down, then moves the bucket far enough away that neither of them will accidentally knock it over. Then he goes back to the food. He opens the top of the soup container and Argent makes a slight movement towards it before catching himself. That flush of the man’s just gets deeper when his stomach growls.

“No,” Stiles says. He takes the soup and the bread and sits back down in front of the other man, and then cradles the food in his lap. “You know, if you wanted that, you had time to do it yourself. But so sorry, too slow, you didn’t, and now I’m not going to do it because I don’t like you. You got my goddamn best friend killed.”

“I didn’t—” Argent starts, and then he twists his head aside and slumps back against the pipe. He’s silent, except a second later his stomach rumbles again. He pulls up his knees to his chest, but his gut lets out a very, very long growl. Long enough to raise Stiles’ brows, and to make Argent just give up and look at the soup. “Then what’s that?”

“It’s your food. Because I found the bottles—great idea, hiding them in the gun racks—and if they’re all you, I’m pretty sure you’re going to throw up anything else.” Stiles laughs at Argent’s face. “I told you, I don’t like you. You’re a lousy hunter who let your family walk you right into a vendetta, for no good reason, you got your wife and daughter killed, and you’re lying around drunk while their killers just fuck around, fancy-free. Jesus, the Hales know where you are, and they aren’t even bothering to rip out your throat because that’s how fucking useless you are.”

Argent starts off by flinching and then progresses to grinding his teeth and rattling the cuffs, and then to twisting himself up onto his knees so roughly that his pants rumple down to mid-hip. He doesn’t seem to notice, and finishes up with a choked, but clearly enraged, spitting noise, his head snapping forward as far as the rope will let it.

Stiles sits and pulls the bread into little pieces that he lets fall into the soup, and waits for the man to get over it.

After a couple strangled grunts, Argent falls back against the pipe again. He’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon, but his body’s got the kind of slackness that usually only the dying have. He coughs a few times, maybe tries to say something in there, and then just twists his head away. His shoulders keep jerking and then a sob leaks out.

The bread’s run out. Stiles looks at the man for a couple minutes or so. Then he gets up, swearing under his breath. He goes over and he pushes Argent’s head down and he’s going to untie the rope from the man’s neck, except the knot’s rubbed so hard that there’s blood soaked into it. Stiles sighs and gets out his knife, and cuts it off.

Argent breaks up his crying with a hiss and a hitch as the rope peels off his neck. Then he pulls away from Stiles. He looks up. His eyes are puffy and red and his nose and mouth are covered with snot, and his tears are sticking on his stubble, just about how he should look. 

Then he drops his head, hunches up his shoulders. He turns his head once, attempting to wipe his face on his shirt. “Scott wasn’t…a bad werewolf,” he says, very quietly and very hoarsely. “As they go. But he just wouldn’t—he and Allison, they just wouldn’t…stop.”

The cuffs have cut into Argent’s wrists too, Stiles notes. They’ll have to be dressed; gangrene or blood poisoning isn’t in the plan. For now he just puts his foot to Argent’s ass and scoots the man over to the soup. Then he gets down and he picks up the container and holds it under Argent’s mouth.

Argent inhales deeply, then grimaces. Still, he opens his mouth for the spoon, which surprises Stiles. He’d looked like it’d be another few minutes of crying and yelling first.

He swallows too fast. Stiles can tell when Argent feels his stomach cramping because he jerks and then holds his breath. Then lets it slowly out, and manages to not bolt the next spoonful Stiles feeds him.

“Never mind what I thought about it, or Victoria, all right?” Argent mutters, sounding very tired. “Gerard was not going to put up with it, not after Kate.”

“Kate?” Stiles says.

Argent glances up and a flicker of calculation goes through his eyes. Then he shakes his head. He eats another spoonful. “She was supposed to investigate the Hales. There were reports they were killing people—they _were_ , but with guns, like peop—loophole. She stuck around anyway, seduced Derek Hale, got into their house. Burned it down but got bitten by Talia in the process. She turned and didn’t say anything, till one full moon she broke into my father’s house and tried to kill him.”

“So your father killed your sister.” Stiles prods some of the bread chunks down under the soup to get them to soften.

“He…” Argent frowns and shakes his head. He pulls at his arms and his shoulders go up, his head tilts, like he’s trying to hide the back of his neck, and then he winces and relaxes. “I don’t know. I was there, but—I don’t know. Something—I used to think I was knocked out. That’s what Gerard told me happened.”

“Is she dead or not?” Stiles asks.

Argent looks up. His face is starting to settle into that set expression and Stiles is about to get up, when Argent abruptly sucks in his breath. He shifts towards Stiles. “Wait—she’s dead. Kate’s dead. I buried her, I made sure—I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew my father wasn’t trustworthy. I just—I didn’t—I should’ve—”

He’s starting to cry again. Stiles shoves the spoon at him and it nearly smears over Argent’s face before he opens his mouth. Chewing the noodles in the soup seems to snap Argent out of the sobbing fit.

“Allison didn’t know what we did, not really,” Argent says after a moment. “She didn’t know about werewolves till Scott—he taught her about them, and then…then she couldn’t stand that we were going after them. She wouldn’t listen—she just thought they’re all like him, and they’re not, and Gerard was moving us into alcohol because—it wasn’t the money, it was the guns, we needed them but nobody will just ship guns anymore. They make more on the booze and Gerard argued we had to control the risk to us.”

“Enter the Hales again,” Stiles says, giving him another spoonful.

Argent snorts. “They were already around. They’ve _always_ been. Your friend might not have known, but I think they knew exactly what they were doing, letting him meet my daughter.”

His voice is going. Stiles lets him go a few spoonfuls before the next question. “So who turned Allison?”

“I don’t know,” Argent says. He pauses, then shakes his head, hard enough to almost tip him over. “I don’t. I don’t—my wife, she followed Allison and Scott one night, and she was bitten by Laura Hale and she turned. Scott said Victoria was trying to kill him—anyway, Allison found out our code on it and she went to Gerard, begged him not to make Victoria kill herself. He shot my wife in front of her.”

Then Argent’s head drops. He breathes hard and unevenly for a few seconds. When Stiles gets impatient and shoves his chin up, he hisses and jerks his shoulders like he’s going to headbutt, then stops himself. Eats soup.

“Allison ran to your friend,” he says bitterly. “Not me. She wouldn’t speak to me. I tried—I didn’t want Scott to die, all right? I just wanted to speak to my daughter again, just try to explain—I asked Scott for help and he said yes. All right? I asked him and he tried to help me and I _know_ , I know. I know.”

“So you got him killed,” Stiles says. He swirls the soup around, gauging what’s left versus the nauseated look on Argent’s face. Then he grabs Argent by the jaw and presses the rim of the container to it. “Drink up.”

Argent makes a muffled noise, too rough to tell whether it’s mad or surprised or pained, and then slurps clumsily at the soup. When it’s gone, he slumps down, head hanging. Between the soup and the soggy bread and the snot, he looks like somebody’s painted his face with wallpaper paste.

Stiles pulls out a handkerchief and wipes off Argent’s face. The man starts and then settles to staring at Stiles in confusion over the cloth. “We were supposed to meet at the high school,” Argent finally says. “But they weren’t there. I waited and then I heard howling coming from nearby, ran towards it. Scott was dead when I got there. I didn’t see Allison so I went home. And got drunk. And—and I don’t know how long after, but Allison tried to sneak home. She came through the window of her bedroom, just like when—I saw her, and then I saw my—Gerard, and she changed and he shot her.”

“Your daughter’s boyfriend turns up dead and your daughter’s missing and you go get drunk?” Stiles says. “That what they teach you in hunting school?”

Argent rears up, furious, then fumbles as his balance goes awry. He spits out a rasping almost snarl as Stiles grabs his shoulder, then goes still with his head turned to the side. He purses his chapped lips so hard that little flakes of skin come off.

Stiles moves his hand to avoid those and Argent’s head snaps around. “I woke up drunk, here,” he says curtly. 

“Huh.” The handkerchief could be washed, Stiles supposes, but he doesn’t really want to carry it back to the hotel with him. He takes it and the empty soup container and bundles them both in a bag for the trash.

Then he starts wading through the scattered junk again, till he finds some clothes. He rips up a shirt into strips and returns to Argent, who warily coils back on himself.

Still doesn’t keep Stiles from knocking him out again. Stiles heaves him onto the sleeping bag on his belly, then uncuffs him. The blood’s dried around where the cuffs have cut in, and when he pulls them away, the scabs break and start bleeding again. He checks his watch, then shrugs and just wraps each wrist in cloth. Gets the rope down from the pipe and knots it tightly over the cloth, keeping Argent’s hands behind him, and then uses the handcuff to secure one of Argent’s ankles to the piping. He uses another cloth strip to gag him.

That done, Stiles closes the red circle back up. Empties the bucket, takes out the trash, makes himself presentable. Stops and has a cigarette by the side of the house, watching a lady walk her children down the street, and then slips out and saunters down the road to where his car is parked.

* * *

When he arrives at his hotel, reception lets him know he’s got a message. It’s from the sheriff’s office, saying Stiles left something back at the station and asking him to come get it at his convenience. Stiles shrugs and tosses the paper into the next wastebin he sees, and then heads through the lobby to the elevators. Along the way he passes a thin, fidgeting man reading the racing results, and wearing a coat so threadbare that he might as well be keeping his gun in the front of his waistband rather than under his arm, for all the cover it gives him.

The man doesn’t look up, though Stiles spends a minute smoking only a few yards away. Finally Stiles gives up and puts out his butt in the handy decorative tray, and goes up to his room.

He gets as far as the hallway outside, where Derek is waiting, hands in his pockets, leaning against the door to Stiles’ room. Another dark grey suit, with faint vertical striping in cream. 

Stiles stands back and waits and Derek’s brows lift very slightly, so Stiles shrugs and squeezes his hand between Derek’s arm and his side and unlocks the door. That makes Derek move away, since the door swings in, and Stiles steps over the threshold, pulling off his suit-coat and tie. “Come to check on me?” he says. “You know, I’m starting to think that your family doesn’t like me.”

Derek takes his hands out of his pockets. He looks faintly puzzled and he comes only a step into the room. “Why wouldn’t we like you?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” Stiles unsnaps his suspenders and tosses them aside, along with his cuff-links and his watch, and then tugs his shirt tails out of his trousers. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, toeing off his shoes at the same time, and hears a stifled exclamation.

Then he hears the door shutting. He walks over to the bathroom, shedding his shirt as he goes, and braces one hand against the sink so he can pull off his socks. When he straightens up, Derek’s standing in the bathroom doorway, one hand on the jamb, eyes sliding up Stiles’ back and over his throat. The mirror reflects the slow bob of Derek’s throat as he swallows.

“Where were you?” Derek finally says.

“Where were _you_?” Stiles snaps, turning his head. He holds Derek’s stare for a moment, then turns back and undoes his belt. He leans forward and checks his face in the mirror, rubbing at his cheek and jaw. “Scott gets fucking mauled to death and you can hear him but you can’t find him? Are you serious? Next you’re going to tell me this town’s built on ancient underground tunnels.”

Derek moves his hand up the jamb, till it’s higher than his head, and slouches into the frame so just half his face is visible. “There _are_ tunnels. Not that old, I think the first one was built just a couple decades ago, but they’re there. There’s one going under my old house.”

“Well, that’s nice,” Stiles says. He decides he doesn’t need a shave today, and takes the new razor out of his pocket and sets it on the sink. Then, while Derek’s glancing at that, he peels his undershirt up over his head. He bunches it up in one hand and then turns on Derek. “Why didn’t you help him? And don’t spin me a line of bullshit like Peter.”

“Peter wasn’t lying,” Derek says, although suddenly he’s irritated. He pushes off the door frame and his arm jerks down to plaster his hand over Stiles’ bunched-up shirt. He pulls a little so Stiles rocks on his feet. “Look, I know he’s…not pleasant to deal with, but he wasn’t. We did hear him, we didn’t know where he was, and by the time we ran over, he wasn’t there.”

“Ran over where?” Stiles says.

“The south side of town,” Derek immediately replies. “Down where the factories are. The night shift only uses half as many people and they’re all—if you know, you know there are alleys nobody’s going near for eight hours. But it’s noisy, even at night, and you can’t smell a damn thing. Gerard uses it a lot for meetings.”

Stiles considers the man. Derek’s uneasy under it but he braves it out, mouth fixed in the beginnings of a snarl, eyes wide and nervous about it. Then Stiles snorts. Pulls his shirt from Derek and dumps it in the bin for the maid.

“That wasn’t hard, was it?” he says. He pushes the shower curtain aside and turns on the tap, then lets the water run over his fingers. The hot water took about three minutes to come up yesterday, and it’s feeling like today will be no different. “I just want to know what happened to him, is that a crime? Why the hell are you all following me around?”

“P—we didn’t know you knew about werewolves,” Derek says. He ducks his head when he comes into the room, though the lintel clears him by about two inches. “And we didn’t know who you’d blame for Scott. It’s…touchy here. A lot of other people died before him, and a lot more are probably going to before it’s over.”

“Well, Peter promised as much,” Stiles mutters. He hears Derek’s slow inhale, quickly stifled, but doesn’t turn around. “You know, he’s actually very pleasant. _Extremely_ pleasant. Right up till he’s not. Right?”

He looks up then, and catches Derek’s lips thinning. Derek tilts his head, then shrugs. “He’s always been like that, long as I can remember. You don’t have to talk to him, you can just ignore him.”

“Sure, of course. How obvious. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that, _not_ talking to him.” Stiles is getting a crick in his neck so he sits down on the edge of the tub. The water’s about lukewarm now, but it’ll be another minute before he feels like stepping into it. “So what are you two again, anyway? Cousins?”

“He’s my uncle. Laura’s my sister,” Derek says. Then he frowns. “You don’t remember us?”

“Am I supposed to? Do you remember me?” Stiles says. When Derek grimaces, Stiles laughs and then pushes his foot against Derek’s shin. “Didn’t think so. And I was eleven when we left. Scott and his mom were about the only damn people I really gave a damn about here. I remember your family had the really scary house in the woods, and I read the papers and sometimes police dispatches, but that’s about it.”

Derek looks down at Stiles’ foot, which has slid off his leg, but which Stiles hasn’t bothered pulling all the way back. His head dips more, like he’s going down, and then he hesitates and glances out towards the bed.

“What was Scott doing, running with you, anyway?” Stiles asks. “He wasn’t a gangster.”

“He stitched a couple of us up,” Derek says, looking back at him. “He wasn’t interested, but the Argents were trying to shut him down, too, and he started seeing what they were doing to werewolves around here. He…”

“He was a good kid,” Stiles says flatly. Then he gets up and flips the lever to route the water through the showerhead.

A little spray gets on Derek before Stiles pushes the curtain over. He backs up, blinking off the water, and then his eyes widen a little at Stiles’ trousers puddling on the floor. Stiles stoops and picks them up, and deposits them in the laundry bin. Adds his boxers while Derek is still working through what to do, then gets in the shower.

Stiles likes his creature comforts but he’s never been one for much time in the bathroom. He gives himself the usual work-over and then gets out. Derek’s not there so he towels off and then wraps a second towel around his waist. Runs one hand through his hair; he should probably find a decent barber in town.

He steps into the bedroom and Derek shoves him nearly back into the bathroom, hands and mouth hot and all over Stiles. The man grinds them up against the doorway. Towel lasts about two seconds and then rumples down at their feet while Stiles is clawing off Derek’s coat. He’s still damp enough that it’s soaking into Derek’s clothes, making them stick under his fingers. He digs at them with his nails, trying to get up a fold he can work on. But it’s hard, the flesh under it seems like smooth hard muscle no matter where he tries, back or ribs or chest, and Derek’s crushing his head back with fierce kisses.

One shove makes his head slip off the jamb. Stiles steps back into it, swaying into freefall for a bare second, and then Derek’s got him by the hips and is pulling Stiles flush into him, snarling and sucking at his mouth. They fumble around till the backs of Stiles’ legs hit the bed, and then they go over.

Derek crawls on top of him, laving and licking from Stiles’ collarbone up his neck back to his mouth. It feels like somebody’s running a hot iron over him, not on the skin but just high enough over it to make the hairs burn. He groans, then hikes up his legs and seizes Derek’s head in both hands. He curls his fingers into Derek’s hair, digging through the thick, coarse strands till his nails are sunk into skin; Derek arches into it, letting out a gut-deep moan, his throat trembling right over Stiles.

Stiles cranes up and licks at the man’s Adam’s apple, following its frantic bob. He drops his hands, giving either side of Derek’s neck a good raking, and then slips them under the man’s suspenders and flicks them off Derek’s shoulders. Derek rolls his arms back out of them, then slams his hands back onto the bed, next to Stiles’ head. He stares down at Stiles, mouth open in an unending pant, then abruptly rolls off.

“Well—” Stiles says, blinking. Then he looks over and Derek isn’t leaving, he’s just shoving down his trousers.

The belt’s still in the loops, buckle swinging so wide that it stings Stiles’ hand as he crawls after the man. Derek only gets his trousers down to mid-hips because he’s trying to climb further onto the bed at the same time. His shirt flaps up his back and Stiles pushes it higher, peeling up the undershirt, running his nails along Derek’s spine. Derek snarls but it’s thick and dragging, nothing about anger, and then he presses his head and shoulders into the bed.

His hips are still up and _that_ makes a hell of a picture, beautiful ass waving in the air, pale and round as skinned apples. Stiles stares at it, laughs, and then shoves Derek’s hips down so he can actually fuck the man.

The interruption’s good for getting Stiles’ head back, too. Oh, he cuts loose a string of curses that makes Derek’s brows jump when he sinks his cock into that ass, it’s tight and perfect and deserves that much, but he can keep back enough to make it a slow, deep fuck. Derek bucks at him, obviously, isn’t into that so much, and Stiles isn’t going to try fighting him. Just lets the man push back onto his dick, rock to and fro, till he figures out Stiles isn’t going to speed up.

Derek keeps at it for a couple more seconds, out of sheer frustration, judging from the noises he’s making, but then he gives up, moaning into the bed. His hands scratch down the mattress, leaving neat slits in their wake, then push back up and repeat the motion, except a little crossways so the slits turn ragged.

He jerks forward when Stiles starts moving again, but once he realizes it’s the same slow, balls-deep to almost out pace as before, he flattens himself to the bed. His eyes roll back and then he closes them, closes his hands into fists and grinds them into the mattress. Makes a long, low, whining sound as Stiles presses up against his back.

There’s something on his skin between his shoulderblades, under his shirt. Stiles inches up Derek’s clothes, a little with every thrust, till the first black edge peeks out. Then he slips his fingers under Derek’s undershirt and then pushes them up, tenting the shirt out of the way. Derek rolls his shoulders back, pushing them up so Stiles’ palms cup them for a second.

“What’s this?” Stiles gasps.

Derek whines again, nuzzles the bed. His fists divot the torn sheets. “Tris—triskele,” he grunts. “Stiles. Fuck, Stiles, come on.”

“Nice.” Stiles rubs his thumbs over the inked whorls, then drives into Derek so deep that for a second he thinks he can feel Derek’s hips unhinging around him. 

Derek bows his head so far back that Stiles can almost see down his open mouth, then snaps forward with a ragged cry. Stiles has to grab the bed for balance, jerk his head sideways so Derek’s bucking doesn’t break his nose. He can’t hold himself there, slips out and his mouth is over the tattoo and he grins and drops to bite viciously across one spiral.

That’s enough for Derek to climax, ripping up the sheets again. He drags them both up a foot, then collapses, slack and sweaty, his eyes screwed shut.

Stiles gives him two seconds, and then starts moving again. Derek’s still for one and a half thrusts, and then he moves weakly in protest. His hips hitch from side to side. “Wait,” he says. “Shit. I can’t—”

“Shut up, you’re a werewolf, you can take it,” Stiles says, and keeps moving. When Derek hisses at him, as pained as pleasured, Stiles drags his nails over the tattoo.

Derek hisses again, but he pushes his hands out instead of in, going lower under Stiles. He starts moaning as much as he’s wincing, and by the time Stiles finally comes in him, he’s pushing his hips back for it. Even shakes his head when Stiles stops moving.

“Make up your mind,” Stiles snorts, flopping over Derek.

For a couple seconds Derek keeps rolling his hips, but it’s half-hearted, even though he’s fisting the sheets again. He curses under his breath, settling into an occasional squirm. Stirs once to kick off his pants, and then work his knees up so they’re splayed out to either side, sinking Stiles a fraction deeper into him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pressing his face into the bed. “Fuck.”

Stiles rests his cheek against Derek’s shoulder and traces one arm of the triskele with his finger, pausing whenever Derek shivers. “I don’t know that I blame you for Scott,” he says, and Derek goes still. “But hell if anybody’s telling me anything. You know, I went to talk to his girlfriend but nobody seems to be home.”

“Allison?” Derek lifts his head, but it’s turned so Stiles can’t see his face. “You went to her house?”

“A couple times. Hung around, knocked on windows, nobody’s answering.” Stiles follows a drop of sweat with his fingertip down Derek’s back, around the curve of the long muscle running along the spine, and then over the side of Derek’s waist. “Phonebook says she lives there, with—”

“Her father,” Derek says, putting his head down. He shrugs. “He’s an asshole. Was an asshole. He’s still there—at least, nobody’s seen him leave—but he was probably too deep in the bottle to hear you.”

“So where’s Allison?” Stiles says, casual, like he’s just wondering. He wraps his hand around the dip of the waist, then slides it under Derek. Lets it wander around till Derek is trying not to writhe under him. “I never met this girl, I’d like to. Like to see what was the big deal. Ask her what the hell Scott had to go and get himself into trouble for.”

For a while Derek is silent. Then he pushes himself up on his arms. He turns his head and starts to say something, and Stiles cups his hand over Derek’s half-hard cock so instead Derek slumps back into the bed. Stiles’ cock is soft but it’s still in Derek’s ass, and between him rocking it in Derek and his thumb massaging the head of Derek’s cock, it doesn’t take long at all.

Derek comes more quietly this time. Just a little, shivering, guttural groan, and a rough tremble that runs through his whole body. His eyes open wide and go glassy as Stiles watches, glassy and then slowly rational again. They tick over as Stiles pulls his arm out from under Derek, slides his cock free, trying to find something in Stiles’ face. And they find something but it obviously doesn’t add up for Derek.

“Nobody’s seen her since the night Scott died,” Derek finally says. He hesitates, then turns over and hooks his fingers around Stiles’ wrist. Loosely, but he tugs hard with the grip he’s got. “Peter and Laura think she just went back to Gerard. Maybe he shipped her out of town.”

“If she left, then are you going to try and find her?” Stiles says.

Derek turns further over. He’s thoughtful, and, when Stiles jerks his wrist free, just briefly pained. “Do you want us to find her?”

“I want to know what the fuck she did to Scott,” Stiles says. He sits up and looks around, and then gets off the bed to grab the towel off the floor. “Also, you can pay the damages.”

“Oh, right.” Derek sits up, absently pulling his shirt down. He glances at the bed. “Sorry.”

“Well, it was a good fuck, anyway,” Stiles says. He comes back over to the bed, so Derek’s wince turns into a confused, wary look. “You and your family keep offering to help me out, but so far you’ve just given me bad nerves and a high hotel bill.”

Derek looks him over, then suddenly smiles. He picks up a piece of bedsheet, then flicks it at Stiles. “We can fix that. I leave a message with the front desk, will you show up?”

“I guess it depends on the message. And the place.” Stiles shrugs. “It’s been a pretty shit trip so far, you could at least take me somewhere nice.”

Still smiling, just wider and with more teeth, Derek gets up off the bed. He and Stiles are nose to nose for a moment, and then he bends sideways out of it. He kicks up his pants and boxers from the floor and starts putting them on.

“Sure, I can do that,” he says.

* * *

There’s a different man in the lobby when Stiles shows Derek out, short and portly, with trousers that hike up to show a knife tucked into his boot. Stiles rolls his eyes and uses the hotel phone to call the police station. The deputy who answers doesn’t know what Stiles is talking about so he goes to find the sheriff, who is also confused at first, but then bullshits something about paperwork Stiles didn’t fill out.

Stiles makes an appointment for tomorrow and hangs up, then takes the phone book and flips through it till he finds the Whittemore number. He keeps his fingertip on the entry for a couple seconds, then snorts and shoves the book back on its shelf, and goes to run some more errands.

“You don’t have to hit me,” is the first thing Argent says when Stiles removes the gag. “I take one step out of this house, I know I’m dead.”

Stiles raises his brows. “And we care about that, do we?”

“Well, you seem to have an interest,” Argent says, as dry as he is raspy. They’ve already gotten the bucket out of the way and he’s looking towards the bundle with the deli logo when he notices Stiles is moving behind him.

He tenses up, then wrenches his head around to watch over his shoulder, but he doesn’t move as Stiles unties his wrists. For a couple minutes Argent doesn’t pull his arms around, either, though he uncrosses his wrists. He turns his head to follow Stiles as Stiles gets the other bag he brought and starts laying out bandages, tweezers, and the bottle of tincture of iodine.

“Where’s your father?” Stiles says. He gives the bottle a good shake.

The muscle in Argent’s cheek tics. Then he looks down. He brings his arms around in front of him, slow and jerky, hissing through gritted teeth. His shoulders work stiffly back and forth, up and down.

“Probably in the preserve,” he finally says. “I don’t know. I don’t see him. He stopped having his men leave me food a day before you showed up.”

“What’s in the preserve?” Stiles says. He holds out his hand.

After a long, perfectly still pause, Argent maneuvers his right arm so his forearm is resting in Stiles’ hand. He hisses once more, when Stiles starts cleaning out the lacerations around his wrist, and then swallows hard. He pulls his other arm across his chest, still using short, jerky movements, and starts using the heel of that hand to rub into the arm Stiles is holding.

“Tunnels.” Argent shrugs. “They were supposed to be for a new water treatment plant, but the funding was canceled. Mostly people use it for smuggling now.”

The cuts aren’t too bad, though they’ve gotten more swollen overnight. Stiles picks out a few threads that’ve gotten stuck to the blood, then pours some iodine onto a pad of gauze. He slaps it around Argent’s wrist and Argent abruptly straightens up, but otherwise takes it without complaint.

“I knew I wasn’t remembering right,” Argent says curtly. He shrugs roughly. “Kate, well, she was going to get shot by someone. I was more concerned with trying to get my family away from my father at the time. But the other times—you don’t know what it’s been like here.”

“I don’t care either. You might’ve been suspicious but let it go, and it probably helped get people you care about killed.” Stiles tightens his grip on Argent’s arm as the man inhales shortly, then yanks the gauze off. He wraps a fresh bandage around Argent’s wrist and then reaches for Argent’s other arm, jerking it when Argent’s slow to move it. “It also got _Scott_ killed, which I do care about.”

Argent shifts on his knees. He looks better, for all that he’s starting to smell again. His eyes are clear, and while his body might be stiff and underfed, he’s got a certainness to how he holds himself that reminds Stiles he _was_ brought up a killer.

“If you find out what happened to Scott, what are you planning to do?” Argent asks.

“If you find out what happened to your family, what are you going to do?” Stiles says.

“They’re all dead,” Argent says, blinking. Then he laughs. It’s jagged and disbelieving, and it breaks off when Stiles rubs iodine over his raw wrist. His face goes stiff, and then he shakes his head. “My daughter’s buried in the goddamn backyard. What am I supposed to do?”

Stiles shrugs, because he’s not in that line of business. He just gets more gauze, soaks it in iodine, and then reaches towards Argent’s face.

Argent’s eyes widen in alarm, but he doesn’t resist. Just grunts when Stiles wraps a hand around his jaw and pushes it up. The sore around his neck has a lot of rope fibers stuck to it, but they’re not in too deep, and most of them come out after some dabbing with the gauze. Argent can’t help twisting in pain, but he’s fighting it, trying to hold still.

“The Hales can’t come in here,” Argent says when Stiles is done. “You know that, if you managed to get in.”

“I saw they hadn’t tried either,” Stiles says. “So if you’re wondering why I haven’t just served you up to them, well, honestly, I just don’t think it’d earn me much credit with them. They seem like a pricy bunch.”

Argent looks curiously at Stiles. “You aren’t on their side?”

“I’m reserving judgment,” Stiles says. He picks up a fresh roll of gauze and loops it around Argent’s neck, only tight enough so that it won’t slip, and then he stands back. “You’re going to remember whether or not you want to. So how messy do you want this to be?”

“Can I eat first?” Argent says after a second.

Stiles snorts. “Do I look like this is my first time?”

Oddly enough, that brings a sour smile to Argent’s face. Then he presses his lips together and wipes it away. He scratches absently at his wrist. “Are you going to kill my father?”

“Well, to paraphrase what you said, I think _somebody’s_ going to shoot him,” Stiles says. He backs up and gets one of the ropes, and then brings it over, letting it tap against his leg as he stands over Argent. “Are you actually objecting?”

Argent looks up. He’s angry, that’s easy to see, but he doesn’t give away any sign about what the target is. He stares at Stiles, then slowly lifts his hands up, eyes hard, mouth tight and thin.

Stiles doesn’t bother to wonder. Just ties his wrists together, and then uncuffs his ankle and pulls him over to the other side of the basement, where the tub’s just finished filling. After turning off the tap, Stiles moves his grip to the back of Argent’s neck. The little hairs there are stiff and prickling against his palm.

He says a few words and a chill instantly rises from the water. Argent inhales sharply and stirs against Stiles’ hand, but when Stiles looks over, the man is just saying something to himself, lips moving without a sound. He’s watching the water, though he closes his eyes a second before Stiles stoops, seizes his right upper leg, and then hefts him into the tub.

The tub isn’t big enough to hold him fully stretched out, but after the first panicked thrash, Argent cooperates to get his feet hanging over the side. He’s blowing a slow, steady stream of bubbles, gradually emptying his lungs so he doesn’t just crash head-first into blackout. They obscure his face so Stiles moves his fingers around till he can press into the pulse in Argent’s neck.

It takes two dunks, even with the man cooperating, but Argent finally trances. Stiles hauls his shoulders up against the side of the tub, then pins his hands against his chest and stands up so he can look straight into Argent’s unfocused eyes. “How did Kate die?” he says.

“She—she shifted,” Argent mutters. He’s shivering and his teeth chatter in between each word. “She and Gerard—in the study. They were arguing—she didn’t bring back what he wanted. I heard and—I thought she was killing him. She—”

“What was your father doing?” Stiles says. His hands are slipping so he hooks one under Argent’s bound wrists.

Argent’s eyes narrow, though their haze doesn’t lift. “He—he was backing up, and he…got something out of his desk and—” he goes stiff “—belt, it’s a belt, he put it on and he _shifted_ —God, he’s a _werewolf_ —”

Stiles winces, then swears as Argent suddenly tries to twist up the side of the tub. He drags the man back down till he’s chin-deep. “I thought he killed Kate.”

“He _did_ ,” Argent says, horrified. “They fought and he pinned her and broke her neck. And—and he got me and I thought he’d break my neck but he—my neck!”

His head bashes forward. Not a move Stiles was expecting and it catches him on the side of the face. Hurts like hell, staggers him for a second, but luckily, Argent’s just trying to twist around and scrabble behind him, like he’s pulling off a phantom hand. Stiles gets hold of his shoulders and pushes him under till he calms again.

“Your wife,” Stiles says when he’s pulled Argent back up. “She followed Scott and Allison. Where was she following them?”

“To the Hales, where else,” Argent mutters, somehow irritable despite being half-conscious. “They were working on Allison and Scott, trying to get my daughter to—she didn’t know what Gerard was doing, it wasn’t her fault.”

He looks like he could go on in that vein for a while. Downside of trances, hard to keep people on point. “She came back, right? With a bite? She was turning?”

Argent starts to answer, then goes completely still. His blown pupils try to track something around the room, and then he flinches from something. “She turned,” he finally says. “She turned, and Gerard made her shift back. Then he shot her and he—he was trying to get Allison but she ran from him. She was—I shot him. It had wolfsbane—why didn’t he—Allison, Allison, God, get _out_.”

This time Stiles doesn’t wait for Argent to panic. He shoves the man under, counts to ten, and then pulls him up. “Who bit Allison?” Stiles snaps.

“I don’t…know,” Argent says. He’s still spitting up water and he shakes his head back and forth. “I don’t—”

“Was it Gerard?”

“No. No, she got away, she left, went to Scott, didn’t see her again till—she was a werewolf, she’d turned, she’d already turned, God, God—” Argent thrashes wildly “—she was going after him, Gerard, she was screaming at him about killing Scott, and Laura—I saw her outside, why didn’t she—he just _shot_ her, shot my daughter—”

The water’s kicking up into Stiles’ face, and then Argent manages to get his hands onto the rim of the tub. He heaves up and gets halfway out before Stiles can force him back, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub. Stiles’ feet slip and he goes heavily to his knees, just barely keeping Argent in the tub.

“Where was Laura?” he shouts at Argent.

“She was _there_ ,” Argent hisses. “She was there, why didn’t she do something, it wasn’t a headshot, Allison, God, I watched her bleed out, they wouldn’t let me get to her, I couldn’t do anything and they just _watched_ her, they watched her, they let her die—”

He suddenly grabs Stiles by the arm and pulls _back_ , dragging Stiles half-into the tub. Swearing, Stiles lets go of Argent and slaps him, then yanks free. Soon as he’s clear of the water, he grabs Argent by the hands and the head, and shoves him into what’s left of the water.

There’s only enough to clear Argent’s nose by about an inch, and he’s jerking up and down so that’s doubtful. Stiles works his hand from Argent’s forehead down over his nose and mouth, pressing as hard as he can. He can barely see, his eyes are full of water, and his cheek is still stinging from Argent’s headbutt. Argent’s mouth opens under his hand enough for him to feel teeth and he snarls, then jerks Argent’s head to the side to crack it into the tub.

The man stiffens, then jitters violently, his knees swinging along the tub rim so they’re almost hitting Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles swears again and leans on his hands. He blinks hard to clear his eyes, then coughs hard. He’s gasping and coughing, and it takes him a few seconds to calm down.

It takes him another few seconds to realize that Argent has stopped moving. He lifts his hand off Argent’s face, then snarls and grabs the man by the shoulders, hauling him up and out of the tub. The second Argent is on the floor, Stiles drags him over a knee and hits his back. Water splatters out of his mouth but he’s limp. Still has a pulse, when Stiles checks, but it’s fluttering.

Stiles flips him over onto his back and then straddles him. He pulls the switchblade from his sock and pricks his finger, then uses the blood to draw a rune on his tongue. Then he leans over. He uses both hands to pull Argent’s mouth open and then seals his mouth over it, and blows in. Holds it, till he feels Argent jerk under him, and pulls away just before Argent turns his head and throws up a thick, cloudy, acid-smelling fluid.

“Well, that would’ve been a waste of a good sandwich,” Stiles mutters. Now that it’s over, he feels wrung out as an old rag. He’s still lying on top of Argent and it’s awkward as hell, but he needs a second.

Argent twists his head so they’re facing each other. That fluid is smeared all over his chin and dripping down his throat and it stinks. Stiles wrinkles his nose, then pulls out his handkerchief with a sigh. He mops the stuff off and then lets his arm fall back to the side of Argent’s head that isn’t covered in vomit.

The trance is over. Argent looks exhausted but he’s clearly in the present. Even flinches when he realizes how close they are. Then he breathes in very carefully, as if he’s not sure his lungs aren’t made of glass. He stares up at Stiles, his eyes flicking all over Stiles’ face. His hands shift where they’re pressed between their bodies, half-curling and then flattening out. When Stiles starts to lift off him, Argent’s head tips back, almost following, and then he grimaces and turns away.

Stiles pauses, but the man doesn’t do anything else. So he gets off. He goes over to the stairs, where his spare set of clothes are, and changes. He has a spare for Argent, too, but he’s too damn tired to be fancy about it, so after he half-carries the man over—Argent’s trying to walk, but can’t quite get his feet under himself—he cuts off Argent’s shirt and doesn’t bother trying to replace it. Just swaps out the man’s trousers.

He drops Argent on the sleeping bag and recuffs his ankle, and then they eat. Stiles gets an Italian sub, and Argent gets tomato soup and half a grilled-cheese sandwich.

“My father was leaving me the whiskey,” Argent says when they’re almost done. “Imported stuff, not cut at all.”

“Nice of him,” Stiles says, wiping his mouth.

Argent snorts, then looks over. “If you let me out, I’ll show you where his hiding place in the preserve is.”

“I thought you were dead if you left here.” Stiles considers the last mouthful of his sandwich, then offers it to Argent. “What if I don’t let you out? You going to try?”

“I might,” Argent says after a long pause. He takes the bit of sandwich but doesn’t eat it. Just rests his wrists on his knee. He’s shivering. The part of the sleeping bag under him is damp and he’s got himself curled up as much as the cuff on his ankle will let him. “How much do you blame me for Scott?”

Stiles looks sharply at him. Then he gets up. He cleans up the latest mess as best he can, while Argent sits there and watches him. Eventually Argent eats that piece of sandwich, but it’s mechanical, nearly all his interest still with Stiles. He’s almost perfectly still and if Stiles let it happen, he’d just fade into the rest of the basement.

When Stiles comes back over, his brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t get alarmed until Stiles pushes his head down. He breathes in hard and his hands shoot down to brace against the floor; the muscles in his back jump and twitch as Stiles feels around his nape till Stiles’ fingertips are lying against five little scars.

They’re really small and light, barely dots, and could easily be taken—by sight or by feel—for freckles and moles, except for how they line up exactly with a hand cupping across the spine.

“You know, at this point, I don’t think I _blame_ people for Scott,” Stiles finally says. “I just want to know why it happened.”

“And you don’t believe me?” Argent says. “You think I can lie when I’m tranced?”

Stiles laughs. He slides his hand up to the back of Argent’s head, holding it still as he bends down to look the man in the eye. “No, I believe you. And yes, I’m still going to kill people. But it’s not about doing right by Scott, Mr. Argent. Too late for that.”

Argent sucks in his breath, but his gaze is steady. “So what is it about, for you?”

“It’s about why he did it,” Stiles says. He grins at Argent’s confused face, then drags his hand around the side of the man’s head to cup his chin. Pushes it up so that their faces are nearly touching. “Hang around another night, I’ll bring you something good.”

For a second nothing happens. Then Stiles drops his hand right as Argent is grimacing, so Argent overdoes the twist away and has to catch himself on his arms. Stiles steps back and freshens up the red circle, and then adds a green powder while he’s at it, since he’s not gagging the man. Then he gives Argent a wave and goes up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is quoting _The Merchant’s Tale_ by Chaucer, which is the original source of the ‘love is blind’ line.


	3. Chapter 3

The appointment at the police station isn’t till late in the day, so Stiles picks up his shirts from the tailor’s and then goes to the cemetery. Scott’s grave is still a neat little square of dirt, of course, but the turf over Melissa is all trampled and scuffed, and somebody’s left a crust of mud on her marker.

He’s just finished cleaning that off when Laura Hale finally clears her throat. “Any time,” Stiles says, waving his free hand. “Not like we’ve got company—well, company that can interrupt, anyway.”

She waits till he turns around. Laura’s traded the satin for a skirt suit, sleek and form-fitting but demure enough for church, and a matching hat, which she holds with both hands over her purse. “You’re making time with my brother,” she says.

Stiles blinks, then shrugs. “Well, yes, that happened. Twice.”

Laura’s eyes narrow. Then she bows her head and steps back, as if they’re in a little play and she’s the shocked ingénue. “How long did you know Scott?”

“From the womb, give or take.” Stiles gets up and shakes off his handkerchief, then folds it up and stuffs it into his pocket. He takes out his cigarettes and offers her one, then lights up for himself when she shakes her head. “All right, that’s exaggerating it a little bit, but not by much. His mom was a nurse, and she made friends with my mom when she was there to give birth to me. ‘course, then we had to move away.”

“And you lost touch?” Laura presses.

“He came to visit me once, before his deadbeat runaway father finally stopped sending them any money. After that, they couldn’t afford it, and I don’t know, neither of us were much of a letter-writer,” Stiles says. “What’s with the twenty questions? What, you think I came for something besides his funeral?”

“I’m wondering whether you knew who bit him,” Laura says. She moves aside for him to have room on the path and makes it clear with how she’s looking at him that she expects him to wrap up McCall visiting hours. “He never would say.”

Stiles shakes his head, then ashes his cigarette off to the side opposite of her. He picks his coat up off a nearby tombstone and throws it over his shoulder, and then walks with her towards the gate. “No, that happened after I left. He told me about it, and if this is about how I’m up to date on werewolves, well, I live in Chicago. Kind of hard to miss them.”

Laura tips her head to the side, then nods, conceding the point. “Capone and Moran are thugs,” she says, and then smiles at him, all scarlet lipstick and hot curves. Then she looks away and down the path. “We’ll be lucky if we get out of this decade without people finding out, the way they carry on.”

“Are you trying to find Scott’s alpha?” Stiles asks.

Her head twitches to the side, but she waits a second to actually turn it, and it’s a casual, unhurried look she gives him. “You don’t know who they are.”

“No, but if you’ve got any clues, I’m willing to look them over. I know Scott could be a little…well, different, how he did things,” Stiles says. He puts one hand in his pocket and drags on his cigarette, then laughs quietly. “It’s funny, people always called me the weird one, but he could be just as crazy.”

“We weren’t sure about him,” Laura says abruptly. The breeze flutters through her hair and she flips the pretty waves back over her shoulder, then keeps her head tilted. Her steps slow briefly, and then she catches up with one extended but graceful stride. “In the beginning, because he wouldn’t say who bit him. He wasn’t your usual omega, he wanted to stay but he didn’t want to join our pack, and he had enough skills—we allowed it, but we didn’t know where he’d come from and we didn’t know what might be following him. We still don’t.”

Stiles takes his cigarette from his mouth and blows a couple rings, then jabs the cigarette through them as they walk by. He catches Laura frowning at him and gives her a shrug. It’s a churchyard, sure, but there’s not another funeral on so he doesn’t see what’s wrong with a little private amusement.

“And then he took up with Allison Argent, and we at least knew how that would turn out.” Laura’s lip curls. Then she shakes her head at Stiles. She heaves her shoulders in a sigh and resettles her hands around her hat and purse. “If you’ve been asking around, yes, Allison and her parents were different from the rest of the family. I met Allison a few times, I actually liked her quite a bit. She was—naïve, same as Scott, but she had the guts to stand up to her grandfather, which is more than I can say for either her mother or her father. But she was still going to get us all killed.”

“So she’s dead?” Stiles says.

Laura glances at him. He’s busy lighting another cigarette, and she frowns at him for a few seconds, obviously puzzled. Then the breeze swings over them again and sends the smoke her way, and she turns her head to cough. Stiles mutters an apology and Laura waves it off.

“She’s dead,” Laura finally says. She looks Stiles solemnly in the eye. “I saw it. You have to understand—even though we weren’t sure about Scott, he was still under our protection. We did try to save him, but honestly, Stiles, he didn’t want to be that close to us either. We didn’t find him in time. Then we tried to help Allison. She asked me to bite her, so she’d have the strength to take down her grandfather.”

“Peter says that she was working for Gerard the whole time,” Stiles observes.

“He did that because we didn’t want you looking for her. You’d just end up finding Gerard, and that’s not going to end well,” Laura immediately says. She pauses, then leans in towards him. Her hand grips his arm, claws going straight through his sleeve to prick his skin. “You need to understand. We didn’t realize what we were dealing with till Allison went after Gerard. When she shifted, so did he.”

Stiles lets himself suck too hard on his cigarette. When he’s done coughing, he straightens up and looks at Laura. “He’s a hunter of werewolves who’s a werewolf?”

Laura’s mouth twists in disgust. “Yes, hypocritical of him, isn’t it. But he’s not—he’s not normal. He’s not by birth or by bite, Stiles, he’s by book. Do you know what that means?”

“That…he follows standard police procedures?” Stiles says.

“I can see why people thought you were strange,” Laura says after a moment. She lets go of his arm and composes herself. “It means he’s done it by spell. It’s not easy to do, you need to have a werewolf hide that’s been cut off while the werewolf’s still alive to do it—and he’s managed to get an alpha pelt on top of that, somehow. It’s—wrong. It’s—I can’t explain it to you, but when he’s shifted it’s like up is down and your insides want to be your outsides. And if he gets even a scratch on a normal werewolf, they’ll die like they’re being filled with acid.”

The thought of it shakes Laura enough that she has to take a few deep breaths once she’s finished. She raises her hand to smooth back her hair and it’s trembling.

“Is that what happened to Allison?” Stiles says.

“No,” Laura says slowly. Then she grimaces and pushes back her hair again. “Not exactly—he wounded her but he shot her, too, with a wolfsbane bullet. Killed her quicker than his claws and fangs would’ve. And Scott, he bled out first. It looked like he’d fought like hell, made Gerard work for it.”

Stiles puts out his cigarette. “Well, then how do you—”

“Because he killed my little sister.” Laura’s eyes snap to Stiles’ face and they’re blood-red, and the rest of her is pale granite. She stops walking. “We didn’t put the pieces together till later, but it had to have been him. He clawed Cora and she made it home to die in front of us. She survived the fire that Kate Argent set for the rest of my family, but she didn’t survive that. It took three days, Stiles, and she never stopped screaming.”

She looks at him a little longer, till the red has bled out of her eyes, and then she abruptly turns. They start walking again. The gate’s just up ahead and Stiles pauses to pull his suit-jacket back on, while Laura sets her hat on her head.

“I understand you’re upset about Scott,” Laura says. “But whatever you’re planning, you can’t match Gerard, and we can’t afford to give him any more victories. And I am _not_ losing any more family.”

“All right,” Stiles says. He swings open the gate, then holds it for her.

She leans in, looking him over, even though he must still reek of tobacco to her. Then she steps back and walks through the gate. She’s already angling towards her car, three spaces down.

“Hey,” Stiles says, and she stops. “If you’d known what Gerard was from the start, would you have kept a closer eye on Scott?”

Laura doesn’t answer right away. Her lips tighten, and then she sighs. “If we’d known, Stiles, we would have gone after Gerard sooner, but I don’t know whether that would’ve kept Scott alive,” she says wearily. “It doesn’t matter to him, you know, who is friends with who. He just wants to kill us all.”

* * *

Stiles arrives at the police station right as the evening shift takes over. He endures some more of the sheriff’s reminiscences before the man finally leads him into the back of the station.

“So where’s this paperwork?” Stiles asks, as he’s shown through a door.

On the other side is a line of jail cells. The first two look empty and Stiles can’t see into the third one from the door, but he can hear somebody pacing and cursing. Then there’s a clatter and a hand is thrust through the bars of the third cell.

“Stilinski!” Jackson hisses. When Stiles strolls over, he finds a pale, bloodied, frantic man, clutching the bars so hard that at first he doesn’t seem to notice his hands are smoking.

Then Jackson throws himself back, crying out. He falls against the far wall and lifts his palms, then stares in horror at the blackened, bleeding flesh. His eyes flash and his skull shifts shape. He looks up at Stiles. 

“Stiles, you have to get me out of here,” he says. “They’re going to kill me.”

“Well, this isn’t what I thought Lydia had in mind, but she always managed to surprise me,” Stiles says after a moment. He takes out his cigarettes and a matchbox.

Jackson stares blankly at him. Then he jerks his head and hurries back up to the bars. He gets as close to them as he can without touching them, pressing his hands beneath his arms so red starts streaking down the side of his shirt. “This wasn’t—goddamn it, Stiles, Lydia didn’t get me thrown in here. You need to get me out or both of us are dead—” his already bulging eyes somehow widen a fraction more “— _fuck_ , if you thought she got you over here, fuck, fuck, she might already be dead. Fuck!”

“She’s not dead, Mr. Whittemore,” Peter drawls from the door. He pauses to politely shoo off a deputy, then steps into the little hall running before the cells and shuts the door behind him. “Unlike yourself, the lovely Lydia had the sense to hedge her bets. She came to us to let us know that you and Gerard had struck a bargain to save your sorry hide.”

“What?” Jackson says. He twitches back as Peter advances towards his cell, then turns frantically to Stiles. “Don’t listen to him, he’s lying, I never—Stiles. Stiles! Listen, Gerard didn’t kill Scott. I was there, I saw it. It wasn’t him.”

The match is not striking on the damn wall. Stiles almost tries the bars, but then he remembers Jackson’s hands. He takes a closer look and sees they’re coated with a film of something.

“It _was_ Gerard, you lying little shit.” Peter smiles pleasantly at Jackson, a low, grating growl leaking out from behind his very white, very large teeth.

“It was—Stiles, you have to believe me,” Jackson says. “It wasn’t Gerard. Look, I talked to Scott right before, I know what he was trying to do. He’d asked Lydia for help, all right, and I didn’t want him to get us killed—”

“Scott was an idiot,” Peter says. He looks at Stiles. “I’m sorry, I know he was your friend, but—Stiles. Stiles, what are you doing?”

The strip on the matchbox doesn’t work either, and in fact, finishes off the tip of that match. Stiles throws the match aside in irritation and pulls out another one, then puts away the matchbox and takes out a little paper packet.

“He was trying to get rid of that crazy sick fuck, which is more than you’ve managed to do,” Jackson snaps at Peter. Then he turns back to Stiles. He hits the bars so Stiles looks up, then hisses and wrings his burnt hand. “Scott knew what Gerard was. He knew Gerard was using some fucked-up werewolf spell and he figured out how to stop it, and he got Lydia to help him make some—some thing, that he could kill Gerard with. Except these _fucks_ here—” he nods to Peter “ –they fucked with it so it didn’t work. He figured it out while Gerard was ripping him up, Stiles, you have to—”

“I think we’ve heard enough, don’t you?” Peter says. He’s still frowning at the match and the packet, but he steps forward and puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “He’s clearly delusional. Why would we keep somebody from killing Gerard?”

“I think a better question is, why would you catch Jackson and not kill him right away? If he’s lying and you’re telling the truth, then he’s helping Gerard. If he’s telling the truth and you’re lying, why would you ever let me talk to him? So you didn’t put him in here.” Stiles finally bends the paper packet around the matchhead and then yanks the match out. It flares up and he turns, and the light from its flame flicks a faint blue glow into Peter’s eyes. “Even better question: Jackson, if the Hales were fucking with Scott’s plan, how’d they know how to do it? Because I’m pretty sure he didn’t tell them.”

Jackson opens and closes his mouth, making a helpless, angry, inarticulate croaking. Peter had been looking like he’d interrupt Stiles, but now he smirks at Jackson. Then he starts to say something.

Except Stiles slams his shoulder into Peter, pushing him towards the wall. Peter throws out his arm and catches himself before he gets anywhere near off-balance, but it gives Stiles the room and the time to drop the match into the packet. In the same movement, Stiles tips over the packet so the burning powder runs out in a line across the hall. Peter and Jackson both snort violently, and Stiles can hear them stumbling back from the smell.

Stiles drops the packet and then pulls out his gun with one hand. With the other, he takes out a spare moon clip, which he bundles into his palm. The door opens while he’s cocking the safety off and he side-steps to avoid Peter’s grab at him. A thunderous rattling explodes around him and Stiles finally looks up.

Two men are standing in the doorway. Stiles sights through the bullets frozen mid-air and shoots them both in the chest, and then shoots the man behind them when they fall over. He scuffs a foot through the powder line, which is nearly ashed away anyway, and walks down the hall as bullets plink to the ground. Then he gives each man an extra bullet to the head, careful to stay just inside the door.

“Did you happen to bring anybody?” Stiles says, turning back to Peter. He reloads with the clip as he asks. “A driver or somebody?”

Peter’s crouched low to the ground, fully shifted, his mouth spread wide and his head bobbing slightly, like he’s wringing the neck of a phantom deer with it. He cocks his head when Stiles speaks, but doesn’t shift out till Stiles is done. And then he’s staring at Stiles with a combination of wonder and hot delight. He laughs, then throws back his head and lets out a piercing howl.

Stiles kicks the door shut again and comes back to Jackson’s cell. The door’s on hinges, old-fashioned design, and comes right off when he shoots those. Then he steps through, forcing a confused but _very_ eager to escape Jackson to back up. “Don’t be stupid, we’re not going out the front way,” Stiles says.

There’s one window to the cell. It’s not quite big enough for a person to fit through and it’s barred on top of that, but some weakening runes scratched around it and two motivated werewolves, and they have a bigger, unbarred hole.

Jackson goes first, and almost immediately gets into a fight with the man in the bad suit from the funeral. He wrestles the man’s rifle away and then throws him into the side of the police station, knocking him out; Peter grabs the man’s head and promptly twists it till the neck snaps.

“Jesus,” Jackson says, staring wide-eyed. He skitters back towards Stiles, jabbing his finger at Peter. “See? This is what I m—”

Stiles shoots a couple more hunters coming around the corner. The third one is too fast and too close to shoot, but it’s the same for him since Stiles just slaps his shotgun aside. Then Stiles rushes into him, slamming him off his feet. He kicks out and catches one of Stiles’ legs but not both; Stiles hops, cursing, and shoots the man in the kneecap. Then, when the man’s dropped the shotgun to grab at his leg, screaming like hell, he shoots the man in the head.

“We moved to _Chicago_ ,” Stiles says, seeing how Jackson’s looking at him. He stalks back over and grabs Jackson’s arm, then jerks his head at Peter. “Come on already, I have shirts but I’m running out of suits to go over them.”

Peter’s grinning like a madman. “You _must_ see my tailor,” he says, loping ahead. “Although I wouldn’t mind if all looks under your coat go this well.”

There’s a short stretch of empty field behind the station and then a road. A car comes screeching up and Laura leans out, waving urgently at them. Peter reaches it first and leaps onto the running board, sticking his hand through the open window for a hold. He starts to twist around to reach for the back door when a set of headlights comes around the turn. 

The second car revs up its engine as soon as it’s lined up with Laura’s car, then goes roaring towards her. Her face flashes white with specks of red in the glare as she peels the car away from the curb, then wrestles with the tailspin.

In the meantime, the second car’s got open windows on both sides and Stiles is out of powder. He seizes Jackson by the shoulder and jerks him down and along so they run hunched-over away from the road, bullets pelting at their heels. Also away from Laura’s car and Stiles can hear Peter shouting after them, but going towards them would take him and Jackson straight into the gunfire.

Stiles is heading for the parked squad cars, figuring they can steal one of them, when a _third_ car comes ripping up over the curb and onto the yard. At the same time Jackson jerks and strains forward against Stiles’ grip. So they go for that and scramble inside just as Lydia hurls the car around and back onto the road.

“Did you really think I’d leave a note with the front desk?” Lydia snaps. Her hair’s a wild snarl and her lipstick is smeared, and she has bruising on the one arm that’s visible from the backseat. She ricochets the car onto the main street, then zigzags till they’re heading towards the edge of town. “When it’s a _secret_ meeting, for God’s sake?”

“I didn’t think it was you,” Stiles says.

“How was I supposed to know!” Jackson snarls.

Stiles glances at Jackson, who’s wedged into the footwell as low as he can go, and then looks at Lydia. Then he looks back through the rear window. He can still see headlights whirling around on the main road, but they seem to be getting farther away, so Laura and Peter must be keeping them busy.

“So where are we going?” Stiles says, hooking his arm over the front seat.

Lydia grips the wheel with whitened knuckles and stares straight ahead. “Gerard tricked you,” she says.

“I didn’t—look, you _said_ you’d tell me when it was safe to come over,” Jackson says, exasperated. “It sounded right, it looked like your handwriting, it even smelled like you’d touched it—”

“He stole my stationery,” Lydia mutters. “You’re lucky I got worried and called your secretary. I had to go to the _Hales_ again, Jackson, goddamn you, we talked about—”

“And you told them I made a deal with Gerard?” Jackson snaps, disbelieving. “You’re lucky they didn’t just rip off my head!”

“They weren’t going to rip off your head, not when you were already at the police station,” Lydia scoffs. “Peter was going to want to talk to you _at least_. I knew they’d just bribe the sheriff to throw you in jail and then wait for Stiles to show up.”

Stiles watches the scenery whizzing by. They’re out of the business area and heading through residential neighborhoods, and it’s still early enough that they’re getting a lot of attention. He sighs and reaches over, and puts his hand very, very gently on Lydia’s shoulder. Braces himself for the extra spurt of speed, then shakes her.

“You couldn’t tell them that Gerard was setting up an ambush, so they’d take me somewhere else?” Jackson says. “We were sitting ducks!”

“Shut up,” Stiles says, looking at him. When Jackson opens his mouth, Stiles kicks him. “Now. Lydia, look, slow down. You can’t just drive out of town, you’ve got to go through the preserve to do that and Gerard is there. You’re going to be there in another thirty seconds at this rate, actually.”

Lydia’s shoulder jerks under his hand, but her eyes finally peel away from the road. She glances at him. She’s shaking, but she manages to slow down and then take the turn-off that will route them back towards town.

“I didn’t _know_ what Gerard was planning, getting you all in there,” she says tightly. “I didn’t have the time to think like a homicidal maniac, Jackson.”

“Can we also stop fighting?” Stiles sighs, hanging his head over the front seat. “Because, honestly, plenty of time later. First—”

“I didn’t make any goddamn deal with Gerard,” Jackson hisses. He sounds a little calmer, but he still sounds absolutely terrified. “I didn’t, Stiles. He caught me and I lied my ass off to get away from him. That’s all. I don’t give a fuck if those two families kill each other, I just want to get us out of here.”

“All right, and we’re going to do that. Now stop driving like it’s the races and go where I say,” Stiles tells them.

Lydia glances at him again. She’s biting her lip. Her eyes are glimmering in the failing light, and he can make out a trace of black under her eye, where she’d missed wiping off some of her make-up. Then she nods. She turns back around and slowly eases off the accelerator.

* * *

“I thought I said stay in the car,” Stiles says, stopping halfway through the doorway.

Jackson pushes himself off the side of Lydia’s car. “Stiles, what the hell are we doing _here_?” he says.

Then he stops. His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, and then he just gapes at Stiles for a second. Then Jackson makes a short, disbelieving noise, caught high in his throat. He backs away, shaking his head. When he’s just past the front door, he catches himself and then scrambles to get it open.

“Are you kidding me?” he snarls. Then he turns to Lydia. “We’re going.”

Lydia purses her lips and rocks her clenched fists around the wheel, but she doesn’t move. She just looks past Stiles, where Argent is hanging in the doorway.

“Why are they here?” Argent asks. He’s not upset in the least, just confused.

Stiles sighs and drags Argent the rest of the way into the garage. He swings the man towards the front of Lydia’s car, then lets go. Argent stumbles into it before he catches himself and he has to use the hood to struggle back to his feet, even though Stiles has untied his hands. His half-buttoned shirt flaps up, while his trousers—they’re from his closet, so he’s lost weight—sag low, and between the two he shows his whole belly for a few seconds.

“Chris here knows where his father’s men will be in the preserve, so he can steer you around them,” Stiles says to Lydia. “The Hales won’t be out, they’ll be looking for me. And if either of them finds him, he’s dead, so he’s got no reason to turn you two in.”

“We don’t have any reason to take him either,” Jackson spits. “Having him around’s as good as painting—”

“And you’re not already a target?” Stiles gestures at the garage door. “Did we not just literally break you out of jail?”

Argent straightens up against the car, breathing heavily. He rubs absently at the bandage around his neck as he stares at Stiles. “What are you doing?”

“What do you know?” Lydia abruptly says. Then she rakes back her hair; her hand is shaking so badly that her fingers tangle and she has to fight to get them free. She chews at her lip, then opens the door and gets out just far enough to stand on the running board, looking over the door at Stiles. “If you stay here, they’re going to kill you.”

“Well, all right,” Stiles says. He steps back and puts his hands in his pockets. Kicks at the floor, then looks up at them all. “For one, I know that you didn’t figure out how to reach me by anything Scott wrote down, Jackson.”

Lydia looks sharply at Jackson, who’s already given the game away by freezing. Whatever part of him was smart enough to mock up a note good enough to fool Lydia comes to life now, and except for a half-stifled sound of protest, he doesn’t try to lie. “He told me how to get to you. You’d changed your name or something.”

“Not really, just switched to my mother’s name before she was married.” Stiles shrugs at Lydia. “My father was a good man, really upstanding. Great policeman. A lot of people back in Chicago still say prayers for him. Didn’t want to ruin that.”

“He told me,” Jackson says after a second. He’s more uncertain, running his hand over and over the top of his head. His palms have healed, Stiles idly notes. “He told me, if it went wrong, I needed to get you. That’s all. And—”

“What went wrong?” Stiles says.

Jackson pulls his hand down. He looks at Argent, who’s attentive but stubbornly neutral, and then at Lydia, who presses her lips together and then nods. He doesn’t like that, and he takes a step away from the car, wringing his hands, before he gathers himself and turns back to Stiles.

“He had this thing he was going to trade to Gerard, that Gerard needed for whatever spell he’s using to make him that monster wolf,” Jackson says slowly. When Argent makes a noise, he stops, but Argent swallows it and stares at the ground. Jackson wipes his hands nervously on his trousers and goes on. “I don’t know what it was, I just—he had it in one of those cardboard tubes, you know, for posters, and—I did not like his plan, let me just make that clear. He had his girlfriend with him and I _told_ him to just leave her, but—”

Argent goes very still, but he keeps his head down. It’s Lydia who interrupts. “Allison was the one who insisted,” she says, with an eye on Argent. “Scott wanted her to go back to her father, but she made him push that off till after they met with Gerard.”

“Anyway, the moment Gerard saw her, he went berserk,” Jackson says, after a glare at Lydia. “Scott jumped in front of him, but he was trying to get the tube open. The thing got stuck in it, I think—he couldn’t get his hand out and Gerard ripped into him, and then—he turned around and screamed at me. He wasn’t even supposed to—I was supposed to be _hiding_ , just to yell if I saw anyone else coming, and Gerard came after me and—”

“You lied to save your ass, I don’t care, you can be a coward or a hero and you’re still running out of town, let’s go back to what he screamed at you,” Stiles says.

Jackson works his jaw. His pride wrestles with his sense of self-preservation, then caves with a hunch of the shoulders. “He said the tube wasn’t the right one. Said somebody switched it, said get away, call for help. He didn’t say your name.”

Stiles smiles. It hurts a little. “Good old Scott.”

“But the sheriff’s office did,” Lydia says. She pushes so hard at the car door that it creaks. “Stiles, that second telegram you got, that one was the Hales. They’ve got the sheriff in their pocket, and when they found out Scott had left you a box of things to forward, they had him track you down and trick you here instead of shipping it out. I _was_ working with them, but just to survive long enough. All Jackson and I want from you is help getting out—and you can’t stay either, you’ll get killed.”

“I know that, Lyds,” Stiles says. He pulls his watch out and checks the time, then puts it away. Takes out his gun instead, and a handful of clips, and walks over to Argent.

The man lifts his head, then stares blankly all the way up to Stiles pressing them into his hands. His fingers twitch, go limp, and then curl not around the gun and the bullets, but around Stiles’ wrists. “What—”

“Your father’s had a tail on me since I got in town,” Stiles says. He jerks his hands free and then grabs Argent’s, and forces them to close.

Argent blinks once. Then he sucks in his breath. “He’s coming here—”

“Yes, so _leave_ ,” Stiles says. 

Then he yanks Argent up by a double fistful of shirt. He gets a glimpse of wide, shocked eyes, with a flicker of unconscious heat, before he kisses the hell out of the man.

Argent’s limp as a wet rag. His lips are half-open and Stiles takes advantage of it, all the way, but even then it’s honestly like kissing a doll with the stuffing knocked out of it. That’s not something Stiles is into, so he starts to back off and suddenly Argent’s alive. Pressing back, kissing hard enough that his stubble is raking over Stiles’ chin, harsh thick noises coming out of him.

Stiles has to crowbar him back with a forearm. Argent falls against the hood of the car, still shell-shocked, and Stiles shrugs and steps away.

“Still don’t like you,” he says, and then he looks at Lydia. “Well?”

Lydia is all kinds right there. She’s stunned and scared and confused, and, Stiles is secretly tickled to see, just a touch bitter. She looks at Argent like her world’s been turned on end.

Stiles walks around and gives the car a slap. Lydia jumps, then nods tightly. She gets back into the car, then barks at Jackson. He starts, then shoots her a look. She tilts her head, smiling like her smile’s a knife to his throat, and he snarls and then grabs Argent and drags him towards the backseat.

That out of the way, Stiles goes back into the house. He stands in the kitchen for a few minutes, pondering, and then he goes upstairs to check the things he left in Allison’s bedroom on his last trip. They look fine, so he goes back to the kitchen and makes up a pot of coffee. Sits down at the table and settles in to wait.

* * *

Gerard Argent shows up with a couple goons and promptly beats the shit out of Stiles. He’s still got the appearance of a man in his sixties, white hair, bit of a potbelly, thickened limbs and wrinkled face, but he wields his cane like a surgeon, systematically working between shoulders and groin. Nothing too crippling, just a lot of painful bruising that will stiffen up like hell later.

When he’s done, he gets down on one knee by Stiles’ head and takes off his gloves. “Now, Mr. Stilinski,” he says warmly. “I think I’ve made my intentions clear. I would appreciate it if you could return the favor.”

Stiles grunts, then presses his cheek against the floor. He takes a deep breath, then forces himself over onto his back. The goons go for their guns but stand down when Gerard raises his hand.

“You killed my best friend,” Stiles grits out, looking up at Gerard. “The only person in my life who liked me besides my family. So I’m going to kill you.”

Gerard smiles in delight. He looks up at the goons, then claps his hands together like a kid at Christmas. “How wonderful,” he says. “It’s so rare these days to find someone so direct. And so young, too. All this modern nonsense, dressing things up and pretending they’re what they aren’t, and here you are. It’s such a pity that you have such bad taste in companions.”

“Well, I don’t know, they were good enough for your daughter _and_ your granddaughter,” Stiles says.

There isn’t even a moment’s hesitation. Gerard’s smiling and then he’s not. He pulls his gloves back on and makes a fist, watching the leather stretch over his knuckles, and then he drives that into Stiles’ gut.

“Tell the Hales I don’t care what kind of help they import, I’ll see them all in hell before I die,” Gerard says, getting to his feet.

Stiles is a little busy coughing and groaning, but Gerard doesn’t seem to need a reply. He and his entourage walk out of the kitchen and towards the front door. Two of them stop there, while a third goes up the stairs, tread slow and reluctant.

It comes back down in a rush and Stiles hears an excited voice, and then Gerard’s cold, dismissive reply, telling them he expected no less and they’ll deal with it later. Then they leave. Stiles curls back onto his side, pressing at his stomach, and listens till he can’t hear their car.

Then he gets up. He checks the coffeepot—it’s lukewarm but that’s better than nothing, he supposes. He drinks from it as he goes upstairs and checks the body in Allison’s bedroom. He did a damn good job on it, even soiling the clothes from Argent’s closet with appropriate stains, and he probably could’ve made a dummy with bedsheets and a pumpkin head for all the time the man spent looking at it.

Well, sometimes you ran into blind fools. Stiles shrugs and backs out of the room. He does a last walkaround to see if he missed anything, then pulls out his lighter and sets the place on fire.

His car is still at the police station, but it’s dark enough out that he manages to get to a nearby diner without being noticed. He only stops there long enough to check how bad he looks in a car window. Pulls up his shirt and looks over the bruising, then tucks it half-in and carefully limps into the diner to call his hotel.

* * *

The hotel car drops him off a little before midnight. The lobby’s deserted and the lone clerk helpfully explains that everybody ran to see the huge fire as he gives Stiles his messages. There are three, one that’s supposedly from Erica Reyes telling him to call her at the diner—Lydia, he tosses that one—and two more from Derek. The first one lists a restaurant downtown and a time.

The second one doesn’t have a time, just a location, and the curt message to head there as soon as he gets the note. Stiles considers that one a little longer, then goes back to the clerk and makes a couple requests.

Derek swings away from the bar as soon as Stiles walks in, going from wide-eyed relief to barely-suppressed anger as he looks over Stiles’ face. He starts to reach for some of the bruises and Stiles snorts and ducks his hand, and keeps on going till he’s in one of the club’s private gaming rooms. He drops his bags on the billiards table, then eases himself up to sit on the table as he digs in.

“What?” Stiles says, feeling Derek’s stare from the doorway. “You promised me a good dinner, well, I’m not going to settle if you can’t follow through.”

The man stands there for a couple seconds. Then he turns around and leaves. Stiles hears the distinctive click of a phone being taken off the hook and keeps on eating.

When Derek comes back in, he’s got a handful of bandages and a bottle of iodine on a dinner plate. Stiles can’t help laughing at it and almost chokes himself on some spaghetti. He presses his hand against his mouth till he’s got his breathing under control, then bats off Derek’s hand as he tries to touch Stiles’ face again.

“Come on, he was an old man,” Stiles says. Then he puts his fork down and lays his hand against his side. Derek’s eyes snap to there and his jaw tightens, and then turns to downright iron when Stiles just shakes his head. “Granted, must have been some baseball player in his day.”

“ _Gerard_ did this?” Derek says. He takes a step like he’s going to run for the phone, then shakes his head and just pushes up against the pool table. “How—what—”

“Jackson shoved me out of the car as soon as they hit the highway out. I got a little turned around—that neighborhood on Fremont was woods when I was last here—and ended up near Chris Argent’s house, of all places.” Stiles pauses to drink the beer the restaurant had kindly slipped in for him. “I don’t know, I was mad, I wasn’t thinking, I went up to yell at the front door. Gerard opened it and next thing I know, I’m dragged inside. Chris is missing, apparently, and they think you had me brought in to kill him.”

Derek opens his mouth, then shuts it. He rocks from side to side on his feet, then grabs the plate of medical supplies and shoves it across the felt at Stiles. “Here, clean up,” he says, pivoting on his heel.

He goes and makes another call. Stiles finishes his dinner and half-drinks his beer, and doesn’t clean up, although he does work off his suit-jacket and pull off his belt. He’s pushing his sleeves up when Derek walks back in. And jerks to a stop, his eyes tracing over the splattered blood from Stiles’ busted lip, the bruises Stiles know are showing through his shirt.

“Stop looking at me like I’m a fucking princess,” Stiles says. He heaves his legs up onto the table, then gingerly lies down on his side and closes his eyes. “What did you expect? I didn’t leave when your sister warned me off.”

Footsteps slowly come up to the table, on the side closest to Stiles, behind him, and then stop. A spot of warmth gradually develops over Stiles’ shoulder: Derek holding his hand just over it. It stays there for a few minutes, moves up to Stiles’ neck, then goes away. Derek curses and his nails clink on porcelain.

“And if you really want to help, you’d get me something stronger than the goddamn cough syrup the hotel had. The drugstores are all closed,” Stiles mutters.

Derek snorts. It’s a little stiff. “You should know we can do better than that.”

Stiles rolls over and grabs Derek’s arm just before he puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Like with Scott?”

“We didn’t—he wasn’t supposed to _die_ ,” Derek says. He’s exasperated and worried, and he moves his hand like he isn’t sure whether he should jerk away or keep bending over to pin Stiles. He settles for just looming, eyes angry and voice shading into pleading. “Look—Peter’s coming, we’ll get you somewhere safe, can I just—I can help you, can you just let me?”

Stiles doesn’t let go of Derek’s wrist. “Jackson said Scott was trying to take out Gerard. He said you stopped him.”

“We didn’t know he was trying to do that,” Derek snaps. He rocks backwards and glances at the ceiling, chewing his lip. Then he looks back down at Stiles. He’s oddly helpless, with his broad shoulders, his muscles straining his suit, his handsome face, and yet he looks like he’s scrabbling at a wall of ice. “Scott wouldn’t talk to us, all right? He just wouldn’t. He wouldn’t say what he was up to but he had that useless piece of shit Whittemore helping him. As if Jackson would be alive if we hadn’t given him protection. Lot of gratitude that got us, he didn’t say a damn thing either.”

“Well, I don’t know about Jackson, but I’m guessing Scott objected to your objection to his girlfriend,” Stiles says. He extends the index finger of the hand he’s got wrapped around Derek’s wrist and wags it—and Derek’s hand—reproachfully. “Ah, ah, ah, whatever you really thought about her, you couldn’t just lie for a couple weeks?”

Derek’s face hardens. “With what her family’s done to mine? If Peter hadn’t decided to pick Laura and I up from school the day of the fire, I don’t know if any of us would be alive.”

“But you are, and Scott’s six feet in the ground. And Scott was my best friend and you aren’t even that friendly.” Stiles raises his brows at the flash of hurt in Derek’s eyes. “Fine. Peter is overly friendly, Laura’s hot and cold, and you keep acting like you want to make nice but you’re an awful lot of trouble for a grief fuck, let alone something else.”

He finally releases Derek’s arm. Derek starts like he’d forgotten Stiles even had it, then ducks his head as he turns away. Rubs his wrist against his side, then frowns, his head going up.

Stiles sits up, breathing sharply in and out, and then peers through the doorway. He’s got a direct line of sight to the front door, where Peter’s just stepped in. Peter is smiling and chatting with the bartender and a couple regulars, his hair combed back from his forehead, his collar and cuffs spotless white where they peek from his coat. Even his shoes look freshly shined.

“For someone who was tearing up the police station with me a couple hours ago, he cleans up fast,” Stiles observes. “He keep his tailor and shoeshine boy in his closet or something?”

Derek glances back, then shoves one hand in his pocket. His brows pinch together as he keeps looking at Stiles. “I thought he annoyed you.”

“He does.” Stiles absently scratches some of the dried blood on his shirt-collar. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the effort. Look, I’m sorry, I’m not the kind of romantic who falls in love over my best friend’s coffin. And don’t get silly about it. I know he’s just been stringing me along till you figured out whether you wanted to ship me out in a box or not.”

Peter breaks off from his conversation a little abruptly, though he covers with a quick, effortlessly charming smile, while Derek draws in his breath to speak, only to rub his hand over his mouth. Derek looks at Peter, who’s now turning the sunlit charm on them, and then at Stiles.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” Peter says. He’s still smiling as he walks through the doorway, though it goes brittle as soon as he has a good look at Stiles. His face freezes, then slides to regretful with a hint of outrage. “Good God. If I’d known this would happen, I would’ve strangled that red-headed bitch this morning.”

Then he reaches up without asking, and presses his fingertips against Stiles’ collarbone, pushing the wings of the collar out of the way, black vein-like lines immediately snaking over the back of his hand. Derek makes a short, quickly aborted movement towards Peter, then snaps his eyes to Stiles.

“That’s so helpful,” Stiles says dryly. “Absolutely going to help with Gerard Argent coming after me.”

“To be fair, you were warned,” Peter says, though he’s oddly muted. He withdraws his hand, with an almost-look at Derek, his fingers curling reluctantly away from Stiles. His voice drops and he tips his head forward, gaze settling a little south of Stiles’ mouth. “We tried to give you a choice, Stiles. We didn’t want anyone else lumped into this war with him.”

Stiles tilts his head back, even though the table already makes him taller than Peter. “Well, maybe you should’ve killed him by now. That would’ve done it.”

Peter looks up and his eyes flash blue. He tightens his jaw, then suddenly steps away from the table. “We’ll put you up for the night, and in the morning, one of us can drive you to your hotel to get your things.”

“And then I’m stuck with you?” Stiles says.

“Yes, Stiles,” Peter says. His arched brows say he’s amused, his hard eyes say he’s not. “Unfortunately, you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In traditional folklore, having a special belt made of wolfskin and anointed with a secret substance was one way you could turn yourself into a werewolf. 
> 
> Codeine was and is a common ingredient in cough syrup; it’s an opiate and can double as a painkiller.


	4. Chapter 4

The Hales currently have the penthouse in the nicest apartment building in town, big enough for them to all have separate bedrooms and have a guest room ready and waiting. It’s spare enough to be a guest room, anyway, although when Stiles is looking for something to put on his feet—they gave him a change of clothes but no socks—he finds a delicate gold charm bracelet in one of the drawers.

He puts it back where he found it, and he’s just pulled himself onto the bed when Laura comes in without knocking. “Not only did you have to get Gerard worked up, you had to get my brother and uncle fighting over you?” she says.

“Really? Little old me?” Stiles says.

Laura’s eyes bleed red and her fangs peek out as she smiles. Then she tosses her hair back and comes to perch on the edge of the bed, and in her silky lace wrapper she looks like any other socialite getting ready for bed. “Let’s not play games, Stiles.”

Stiles pauses, then shrugs and pushes himself up against the headboard. He tugs up his shirt and prods at some of the bruises. “Fine. So blaming me for Derek, that’s pretty sorry when you’ve been having him try to cozy up to me since I got here. I know you had Erica Reyes and other people calling in where I’d be.”

Laura curls her fingers into the bed but she doesn’t flash claws. If anything, she looks discomfited.

“Not exactly subtle,” Stiles says, snorting at her. Then he bends carefully over to get at the bedside table. He picks up his cigarettes and lighter, and then the candy dish somebody had been thoughtful enough to get him. The candy dish goes on his belly because he does try to be a good guest, and not burn down places when he’s sleeping. “Though I guess you didn’t have a lot of options. Peter’s—”

“Peter,” Laura says deliberately, “Thought you were more of a problem than I did, up till tonight.”

Stiles raises his brows as he holds the lighter flame to the cigarette tip. He waits till the tip catches, then tosses the lighter to the table and slouches over the candy dish. “So what are they fighting over?”

Laura doesn’t answer him. She turns away and looks towards the window; the curtains are drawn back so that they can see where the town’s lights abruptly cut off at the edge of the preserve. It’d be a beautiful view in daylight, but it’s night, and so where the preserve should be instead looks like an endless, bottomless black sea. And she’s some statue set at the edge, perfectly modulated, with smooth long limbs and fragile features, except her eyes ruin it. They gleam with a little moisture so they tremble a little in the half-light. They tremble, and they look soft.

“I don’t know if we can get you out of town,” Laura says after a while. She turns back towards him and her eyes start at his face, but then drop to the cigarettes balanced in his lap. She puts her hand out, glances at him, and when he shrugs, slowly takes out a cigarette.

“After all the trouble you went to in order to get me in town,” Stiles says, tapping the ash of his cigarette.

She doesn’t reach for the lighter, or even put her cigarette in her mouth. Instead Laura just tips it between her index fingers, occasionally flicking the side with her thumb. Her nose wrinkles a little but she doesn’t seem too bothered by the smell. “We weren’t trying for you, exactly. We were trying to get his alpha.”

“His alpha?” Stiles pauses with his cigarette halfway back to his mouth.

Laura glances over, then smiles tightly, a little wry snort escaping from between thinned lips. “We knew he was talking to somebody about Gerard. Lydia Mart—Whittemore, excuse me, she didn’t have the resources for some of the things Scott knew. We tried to find out—we _asked_ him, begged him, even, but he wouldn’t say a word. He’d just say that they weren’t an enemy, that they’d always helped him out, would always help him.”

“And that has to be an alpha?” Stiles says. “You know, unless Scott changed a lot, he was always easygoing. If he wasn’t still with his alpha, then whoever it was must be a real piece of work.”

“You’re right, they were obviously estranged,” Laura says, looking hard at him. Then she shakes her head and laughs, making it clear it was just a jab, nothing else. “But he managed to get his hands on things only another werewolf would have. And he didn’t trust anybody with them, Stiles, not even his girlfriend. We overheard Allison asking him a few times who it was and he even put her off. His alpha’s the only one who makes sense.”

While they’ve been talking, a quarter of Stiles’ cigarette has burned off. He makes a face at it, then shakes off the ash and gets in a drag. “Makes sense,” he echoes.

“Anyway, if werewolves never left their alphas, we wouldn’t have omegas.” Laura absently rubs her hands together in her lap. Her head tilts so the twist of her mouth momentarily seems to be a crack in her face, and one that’s widening. Then her lips part so she can let out a short, bitter laugh. “Sometimes I’m surprised we’re still all together. I wasn’t ready when my mother died, and I haven’t managed to stop the bleeding since. I—sometimes I think, if I were a really good alpha, I’d send Derek and Peter away. I know it’d have to be me, they won’t go on their own, and I can’t—I can’t watch them die like we had to with Cora.”

Stiles finishes off his cigarette. He stubs out the butt in the candy dish and considers getting another one, then decides against it and sets them and the dish back on the bedside table. Then he grimaces as he turns back. He presses his hand against his belly for a few seconds.

When he looks up, Laura’s facing him. She’s still bitter but she’s patched up some of the cracks. “We were thinking you were from Scott’s alpha, but you’re not, are you?”

“No,” Stiles says. He notices a stray speck of ash on his lap and brushes it away. “Did you really think that Scott was going to side with Gerard against you?”

Laura goes still. Then she puts her shoulders back and takes a deep breath. “We didn’t know what he was doing,” she says. “And if we couldn’t be sure, we couldn’t trust him. But Stiles—we didn’t want him dead either. We just…we wanted him to listen to us.”

She waits for him, but Stiles feels more than done for the night. He flips his fingers at her and Laura’s brow ticks at the rudeness, but then she just gets up. She looks at him, her arms wrapped around herself, and then she turns and she walks out of the room. Takes that cigarette with her.

Stiles gives them five minutes. When nobody else shows up, he turns out the lights and then he goes to sleep.

* * *

It’s well into mid-morning when Stiles finally manages to drag himself out of bed. He limps into the bathroom to wash up, then limps out still buttoning up his shirt, only to find a werewolf in his still-mussed sheets.

Peter’s reading the paper and eating a croissant. He doesn’t have a suit-coat or his shoes or socks on, but the other two pieces of his suit, as usual, fit him like a glove. Blue today, Stiles notes, and while it’s dark, it’ll never pass for mourning dress.

“Come eat,” Peter says, scratching a buttery flake off his lip. He nods at the tray of food on the bed next to him, and then closes his paper, turns it over, and starts reading the back page. “Derek’s gone over to see if he can have your things packed up.”

“They’re going to say no,” Stiles says. He goes over to the bed and looks over the offerings, then settles for toast and jam. “I told them not to let anybody in it unless I walk them in, and to hold it for a week if I didn’t come back right away. Also, I hope he’s not going to break in, because I left a couple surprises for that.”

The paper goes down. Then Peter tosses it aside, grinning, and drops his legs off the bed so he can turn and face Stiles. “Oh, I wouldn’t be that concerned. Derek can be headstrong but he knows when to call for help.”

Stiles doesn’t reply because he’s eating. The jam is very nice, and whoever buttered the toast put it on so thick that slivers of soft yellow come off on his fingers. He licks at one, then pours himself a cup of coffee and drinks it. His thumb slides on the mug and he turns his hand to suck off the butter, then has another drink. Then he looks up.

“If you’re going to look at me like that, I might as well take this—” he nods at the bacon “—and smear it all over.”

Peter doesn’t exactly look like he’d mind, but he leans slightly away from Stiles, and his eyes are taking in more than the butter on Stiles’ hand. “I realize this was hardly in your plans,” he says, measuring each word. “But an enforced stay doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”

Stiles laughs. Picks up some bacon, since he’s looking at it, and crunches off a bite. He washes it down with more coffee and then pops the last of the toast into his mouth. “I just got kicked to shit by an old man, thanks. So you and Derek can just question me like normal people.”

“We’re not questioning you, Stiles,” Peter says. Then he sighs and rolls his hand in the air, acknowledging the blatant falseness of that. “All right, all right, we’re still a little… _I_ , at least, am still unsure about your motives, but we’re certainly not going to act like Gerard.”

“He actually didn’t ask me anything, you know,” Stiles says, eating more bacon. “Just wanted to send a message. Which wasn’t my idea of a hot night out, but I’m not sure it’s any less likely to get me killed than fucking a werewolf, even if that’s more fun.”

Peter starts to speak, then abruptly shuts up. He watches Stiles polish off the bacon and the rest of the cup of coffee as if they’re playing chess, and each movement has some ulterior meaning. Stiles almost tells the man that sometimes people are just hungry, and then he realizes how that will sound. He snorts, since usually his mind doesn’t bother to catch those, and Peter’s brows flick up.

“We haven’t been playing fair, but that doesn’t mean we want you hurt,” Peter says slowly. He tips his head to the side and grins at something especially amusing that isn’t currently in the room. “Especially Derek.”

“You should do something about that romantic streak. Can’t imagine it’s any good in the middle of a turf war,” Stiles says. He wipes his mouth and fingers off on a napkin, then flicks the napkin at Peter. “Infighting doesn’t seem like a great idea either.”

Peter’s eyes snap to him. The other man leans over the tray, till he’s so close to Stiles that he almost seems to be angling for—and then his hand drops. He picks up an orange and sits back to peel it with his claws.

“We’re a pack, Stiles,” he says. “We share.”

“It’s not sharing if you’re just not bothering to ask for permission.” Stiles feels full enough, so he pushes the tray away. He drums his fingers against the bed, then shakes his head and just lies back down. “Fuck it. I don’t have to get my things now, do I? Like anyone’s going to care if I’m dressed in loaners for my crime scene photo.”

“You’re not going to die,” Peter says, a little sharply. Then he laughs under his breath. He moves the tray off the bed, briefly leaving, and then comes back to stretch his legs out next to Stiles. The sharp tang of citrus wafts from him as he eats. “You’re something of a romantic yourself, I’m starting to think. Although a little more in the Byron school.”

“I don’t think that’s who you want to reference, if you want to convince me my life’s not going to be short and messy.” Stiles is on his belly because the cool, silky sheets feel nice, but that only lasts for a couple seconds. Then he has to turn over onto his side, hissing quietly. “It’s not like I mind my dying. I don’t have any family now that Scott’s dead, and there’s nobody back in Chicago who’s going to miss me.”

Peter’s a third of the way through the orange, but he leaves off sectioning it to look at Stiles. He’d started out glossy-perfect but he must have rushed the morning routine, because a couple curls at his temple have broken free of the pomade and are hanging like gleaming tree ornaments, catching soft glints from the light that dance next to his dark, sober eyes.

“You hadn’t seen or heard from Scott in years, you said,” he says.

“So? He was still the only brother I’m ever going to have,” Stiles says. He shrugs, then pulls the pillow more under his head. “I know you think it’s a bunch of bullshit but that box of things he left me, I’d probably kill just for that. He didn’t ever stop worrying about me. Sure, got disappointed plenty, I’m not exactly picture frame material, but he always wanted me to be all right. You know what that’s like?”

“In the abstract,” Peter says after a moment. He spins the half-eaten orange slowly in his palm with his thumb. “Laura and Derek and I, I don’t think it’s the same as what you mean. And anyway—”

“Well, you’re here and Derek isn’t,” Stiles says dryly.

Peter glances over. Then he turns and puts the orange on the bedside table. He turns back and pushes himself down till he’s lying on his belly, propped up on his arms to look down at Stiles. “He usually has terrible taste in bedmates,” he says, just as dryly. Then he twists slightly away and starts cleaning orange pith from his claws. “He’s my nephew. I’ve hurt him, he’s hurt me, and we’ve both killed for each other. True, we might also kill each other someday, but that doesn’t negate the fact that there are very few people on this earth I will kill for.”

Stiles pushes his arm under his head, then pulls it away and scratches at his chin. He’d thought he got off all the blood, but…no, that’s stubble. He should shave. “I can’t tell whether that’s an invitation or a threat.”

“I can’t tell why you still believe you have morals,” Peter says. He abruptly looks at Stiles. His claws sheathe and he rubs his fingers against his chin, mirroring Stiles, and then pushes himself up on his elbows so he’s leaning so close Stiles can open his mouth and taste the orange on the man’s breath. “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand what you’re doing, and I don’t like it when I don’t understand people’s actions. But—”

“You like me,” Stiles says, and shoves himself up on one arm.

Peter has the control to limit himself to one sharp bob of his head and slightly widened eyes, so Stiles doesn’t have to stretch to put his hand on Peter’s cheek. He lets it rest a moment, then, when the surprise starts to drain out of Peter’s face, slides it down so he can hook his thumb under Peter’s jaw. He rubs it into the tender flesh between the vee of bone, listening to Peter slowly suck in his breath.

“You’re right, I don’t really have morals. It’d be more fun to see you and Derek fucking than killing each other, but mostly because I don’t want to ruin another suit.” Stiles lets his thumb drift up to just under Peter’s lower lip, then pulls it away when Peter’s mouth starts to open, down and back under his chin. Digs in a little, then drops his hand just as the muscles in Peter’s arms tense to push away. “But you’re both lying to me about Scott. I can fuck you but I don’t forget that.”

Then he swings forward. Their mouths brush and Peter makes the slightest movement into it before hauling himself back and completely off the bed. He stands there, vest hiked up to show a sliver of shirt between that and his belt, hair falling out of its styling, a twisted shiver going across his face like he’s going to shift. His hands jerk back to his hips and their fingers curl towards the window behind him, hiding their tips.

Peter stares at Stiles for a second. His nostrils flare as he exhales. Then his fingers uncurl, his head straightens, and an invisible hand seems to smooth down over him, even though he hasn’t made a move to tidy himself.

“You are different,” he says.

“I’m taking a nap. I’m fucking beat,” Stiles says. He reaches down and tugs till the sheet’s out from under him, then flips it back. Looks at Peter, whose eyes are burning holes in Stiles and in the empty stretch of bed in front of Stiles, then shrugs and pulls the sheet over him. Closes his eyes as Peter stalks out.

* * *

Stiles really does need more sleep. When he wakes up the second time, someone’s been in to take away the breakfast tray, and also to leave him a stack of freshly washed and mended clothes. Gerard at least hadn’t ripped up anything too badly, although Stiles wonders as he’s looking over his clothes whether he should just put a tailor on retainer.

He’s just washing up his face from a shave when somebody knocks at the door. After a moment’s consideration, Stiles abandons the razor for a heavy bronze statuette and then goes to stand at the wall next to the door. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” Derek says. Then he opens the door. He blinks at the statuette in Stiles’ hand, then moves aside to show it’s also Peter.

Peter has a long, thin metal tube under his arm. When he sees the statuette, he just looks thoughtful. “We can give you a weapon if you’d like,” he says. “We’ve an extensive selection.”

“I didn’t want to just walk in,” Derek says, a touch wounded.

“I’ve never slept with you before, cut me some slack,” Stiles says, putting the statuette away. Then he rolls his eyes at Derek’s expression. “Don’t make me get out the dictionary.”

Derek bites down on whatever he’d planned to say and instead jerks the tube out from under Peter’s arm. Which Peter starts to protest, with raised hand and the beginnings of a sharp comment, but Derek ignores him and pushes the tube at Stiles.

“Scott had this,” Derek says. “He—we didn’t know what it was.”

“We _knew_ what it was,” Peter says, with a look at Derek that’s more than irritation. His hands flex like he’d like to take back the tube, but he seems to realize that’s a bad idea. So instead he closes the door behind him, and then slowly walks towards Stiles. “The werewolf skin belt that Gerard is using, it wears out every few years and he has to replace it. Scott was offering him a new hide.”

“That seems a lot of trouble when I’m sure he could just bribe someone to bite him,” Stiles says, turning away. He works at the hinged end of the tube and wanders over towards the windows, where the light is better. “Chicago’s got werewolves who will do anything, if you pay them enough.”

“Shifting by book does have the advantage that you’re not susceptible to the full moon, since you can remove the belt whenever you wish,” Peter explains. “Gerard wanted the werewolf’s powers without any of its drawbacks.”

Stiles finally gets the end of the tube open. He tilts it to look inside and then coughs as the smell comes at him. It’s not very leathery, actually—there’s some muskiness but it’s too sweet and cloying, a little like rancid fat. He turns his head and breathes against his shoulder, then holds a breath and peers inside. Something flat and looped back on itself is inside the tube but he can’t make out much more than that.

“He let us know he was meeting with Gerard, but he just said it was about Allison,” Derek says. “We thought—maybe he was trying to bribe Gerard to leave her alone.”

“So you swapped this for something else?” Stiles says, looking up.

Derek hesitates, then looks at Peter. The other man is leaning against the door, one hand casually on the knob. He’s watchful but not visibly nervous.

“Scott had a number of tubes, when we went to see him,” Peter finally says. “Jackson is not an ideal accomplice, if you want to keep something quiet. We knew Scott had been working on the spell Gerard’s using, and we knew he’d found something that we hadn’t been able to, despite years at it.”

“We weren’t going to kill him,” Derek says.

Stiles turns back to the tube. He goes up to a handy desk and turns out the tube’s contents onto it: a long, slightly ragged strip of tanned skin. One side is hairless but unevenly puckered, while the other looks like somebody tried to shave it clean, but either didn’t have a good blade or didn’t know what to do with a sharp edge. “If he really _had_ been trying to bribe Gerard with what Gerard wanted—”

“We probably would have killed him.” Peter raises his brows at the angry, slightly frantic look Derek gives him. Then he lifts a mild gaze to Stiles. “Well, you can’t expect any other answer, can you? But Stiles, we would have made sure that was what he was doing.”

“We didn’t get time to,” Derek spits out, turning back around. He drags his hand back through his hair. “His girlfriend walked in and shot me with a crossbow.”

“You were holding Scott off his feet by his throat,” Peter says.

“He just wouldn’t—” Derek stops and takes a deep breath, and the growling edge to his voice ratchets down a few notches “—he kept yelling at us, all right? Saying it was our fault in the first place, as if anybody _asked_ Gerard Argent to come here.”

“Scott could be a little narrow-minded,” Stiles says. He smooths out the strip, then lifts his hand. An oily substance has come off on his fingertips, translucent and slightly tinted grey. He sniffs at his hand, then wrinkles his nose and steps away from the desk to find a handkerchief.

Derek holds one out. He breathes out a little hard when Stiles takes it, like he’d been holding in the air. “He grabbed one of the tubes and ran out with Allison,” he says. “We lost his trail and we were just circling around town for him when we heard him howling.”

“After that, we went back and searched his house,” Peter says. “All the other tubes were empty except this one. We couldn’t even find what sources he’d been using. We’ve been trying to figure out what he meant this belt for, but all we can tell is that it’s not prepared like Gerard would need.”

“No?” Stiles says, but he’s not looking at him, or at Derek. He wipes his fingers off, then throws the handkerchief behind him. Towards the desk, but Stiles doesn’t turn around to see if he made it or not.

Derek tries to say something as Stiles walks by him, but he falters when Stiles doesn’t stop. Stiles hears Peter take a few steps after him, too, but ignores both of them and just heads into the bathroom.

He knocks on the tap with the crook of his wrist, then thoroughly soaps up his hands, until they’re so scrubbed they’re pinking on him. Shakes them off. The water dribbles over the back of his hands and he stares at it, then grimaces and bends over. Buries his pained noises in a double handful of cold water, digging at his brows with his fingertips. He bubbles into his palms for a few seconds, till too much water has run out from between his fingers, and then he puts his hands to either side of the sink and straightens up.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says from the doorway. He pushes his shoulder into the jamb like he’s going to just shove the wall out of the way, then drops his head. “We didn’t—know how you’d take it, if we just came out and said it. We didn’t know he was meeting with Gerard that night, we didn’t know—”

“Didn’t know anybody was going to miss him,” Stiles mutters. He looks at the Derek in the mirror, then turns to the flesh-and-blood one. Derek’s flinch looks more raw in person; the glass flattens him out, glosses over the rough remorse in his eyes. “That belt. I know what he did with it. I’ve heard of it.”

Derek draws a sharp breath, hesitates, and then stands back as Peter comes up to hear. “You know what Scott was planning?” Peter says.

“I didn’t say that, I just said I knew what that belt is.” Stiles rubs his hands against his trousers. “What’s smeared on it, it’s this oil, it absorbs into your skin and it makes you catch fire when you shift. There’s a gang out of Detroit, they like to go after people that way.”

“How long does it last?” Derek says.

Stiles laughs at him. “What, did you get it on you? Not that long, you’ve got about twenty-four hours after you touch it and then it’s no good.”

Derek looks relieved, then embarrassed. Then relieved again, looking at Stiles, who’s still grinning at him. He stiffens a little when he realizes Stiles has noticed, but holds Stiles’ gaze for a second. Then he deliberately looks away and at the desk.

“We’re pretty sure that’s another alpha skin,” he says. “How would Scott get hold of something like that?”

“Maybe that’s what happened to his alpha,” Stiles says. He shrugs and then steps out of the bathroom. Well clear of Derek, then Peter, and he makes sure they both know it.

He sees the relief wipe clear off Derek’s face, but he ignores it. Turns his shoulder to Peter’s cleared throat, and just goes to get his cigarettes and his lighter. Then he keeps going, around the desk, up to the window, and then through it onto the little balcony. Stiles lights a cigarette and then snaps the lighter shut at Peter, who he can hear coming up to the side of the window.

“I don’t want to look at either of you right now,” he says. “Or Laura.”

“Laura isn’t here,” Peter says, slow and careful. “Stiles. We are going to kill Gerard. And no, it won’t bring Scott back, and it won’t undo the past. But it will get him off your back, and then you can decide what you want to do. We made a mistake—we didn’t know who to trust. I hope you’ll allow us to show we’ve learned.”

“What is this, were-gild?” Stiles snorts. He smokes down half the cigarette, then hears the scuff of a foot on carpet. He turns, not quite enough to look over, and Peter immediately stops mid-withdrawal. “You know. I understand why you did it. And Scott fucked up too. It’s just—I miss him. And I don’t want to look at you right now.”

“I know,” Peter says, very quietly. He pauses, then backs away.

Two sets of feet leave the room, one dragging behind the other. Stiles turns back and stares at the preserve. He takes his cigarette from his mouth and goes up so he can lean on the railing, dangling the ash over the edge. The breeze blows the bits that fall off into his legs, and there’s a chilly nip in the air and he really should get a coat or a blanket, but he doesn’t.

“This is a bunch of shit, Scott,” Stiles mutters. He rubs at the side of his face, then drops both arms along the railing and sighs. “Seriously, this is what you leave me with? I should kick your ass.”

He can almost hear Scott’s exasperated, slightly preachy reply. It makes Stiles smile, and then he shakes his head and laughs roughly.

“Well, sorry, my brother, but you’re the one who went and died on me. What else was I going to do?” Stiles says. Then he turns and goes back inside, still chuckling.

* * *

Stiles kicks around in his room for a few hours, then showers, dresses in his own clothes, and wanders out to see what the Hales are doing about dinner. 

He finds Derek and Peter sitting on the floor of the living room with a tray of half-eaten dishes and a scatter of maps. Derek half-rises when he spots Stiles, then sinks back down upon realizing that Stiles is going for the food. “We can order up more,” he says.

“For you and what army,” Stiles says, because what’s left would still do a respectably-sized dinner party. He turns up a knife and fork that looks unused and starts eating. “So when are you doing it?”

Peter pulls himself back from the maps, then bends up his knee so he can rest his arm on it. “It?”

“Preserve.” Stiles waves at the maps, then at the three of them. “Mad at Gerard.”

“His son’s house burned down last night, he’s made it clear he’s taking that as a frontal challenge and will be striking back soon,” Peter says after a moment. “Laura’s spent the whole day with the sheriff trying to force him to stay on the sidelines. Really, we should just kill him for helping Gerard lure us to the station with Whittemore, but—”

“You really want to be fighting the law _and_ Gerard?” Derek says. He’s half-hearted enough that it’s clear this is an old argument.

“We’re bootleggers, Derek, we’re already doing that.” Then Peter shrugs. He pulls at his already-loose tie till its loop hangs down nearly to the top of his vest. “At any rate, I hate having to waste so much money on that idiot. He tries to get us killed and we have to pay to fix his little jail.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I don’t need a primer on grudge matches, thanks. You’re hitting Gerard, when are you doing it?”

“When Laura gets back,” Peter says. He pulls out his watch, then tucks it back into his vest pocket. “In another four hours, if she’s not delayed.”

“You can stay here till it’s over,” Derek says.

Stiles raises his brows. “Thanks, and that will be…”

Derek’s irritated enough that he stops trying to edge closer to Stiles. “We’re _going_ to kill him.”

“You’ve been trying that for years, forgive me if I’m skeptical about a quick end,” Stiles says.

“Well, Stiles, you weren’t here before.” Then Peter waves dismissively at Derek. He unfolds himself and stretches over the maps to snag a piece of fruit from the tray. “No, no, I only meant that now that we know what Scott was trying to do—it’s a smart idea, and I doubt Gerard would have figured it out. From what Jackson said, Gerard would have assumed we had double-crossed Scott, same as you did.”

Derek goes stiff and his eyes dart at Stiles; Peter doesn’t look up from his apple slice but his head is cocked ever so slightly for any noise. When Stiles doesn’t move, Peter straightens his head and starts poking at the maps.

“I noticed the belt wasn’t in my room anymore,” Stiles says. “But how do you know the belt Gerard did get didn’t just solve his problem?”

“Because he didn’t get it,” Derek says. He’s relaxed a little, and is back to trying to stare Stiles into looking at him, and therefore misses Peter’s brief stillness.

Stiles samples some risotto. “How do you know?”

“Because—” Derek pauses “—we found it on his body. We took it before the police could get it.”

“It didn’t seem to have anything on it, so I assume it was a back-up in case he botched the first one. If you want it, I’ll be happy to find it later,” Peter says. He pulls out what looks like a timetable from under one of the maps, then pushes it towards Stiles. “You’re welcome to provide any additional information, or not, Stiles. And I won’t pretend that your demonstration at the police station wasn’t impressive. But it’s not your fight and we won’t force it on you. If you wish to leave, we’ll arrange a car to take you to the train station while everyone is occupied.”

The risotto would have been delicious when it was piping hot, but it’s been allowed to cool to the point that it’s gummy and thick. Stiles is getting full anyway, so he just helps himself to a piece of cheese. Then he eases himself backwards, till he can lean against a sofa.

“Sounds fun,” he finally says, resting his arms across his stomach. “And I wouldn’t mind kicking Gerard’s head in. But I’m out of magic powder and Gerard took my gun.”

“We could give you one.” Derek’s eyes flick from where Stiles’ hands are pushed into his sides, then up as Stiles carefully shifts against the couch. Then he twists up onto his knees. He slides over a few feet—he’s coatless and his suspenders, which are hanging around his hips, snag under his legs and then pull off—and lifts his hand till it’s about level with Stiles’ shoulders. “It’ll help.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says flatly. He holds still till Derek starts to slink back, then sighs and reaches up. Jerks open his shirt collar and then pulls one wing out of the way.

Derek’s eyes widen. His hand twitches back in disbelief, and then he shakes his head. He slides his hand under Stiles’ collar, then props his other arm up on the couch.

Across the way, Peter is crouched over with just the fingertips of his hands touching the floor. He watches with a face so blank it’s almost serene, like lakewater still enough to be used as a mirror. When Stiles raises his hand, Peter rises slightly to follow it but his expression doesn’t change.

“I wish Scott had given you a chance,” Stiles says. He looks at Derek and Derek looks at Stiles’ hand, his lips tightening as it lifts to just by his jaw, goes higher, to his temple, and then sinks again to cup his cheek.

Derek turns his head into it and tips down, his eyes half-closing. He has lashes like a cigarette girl’s cameo, lush and dark. He sucks in his breath as Stiles runs his thumb over the man’s cheekbone, then presses his half-open mouth to the middle of Stiles’ palm as Stiles slides his hand back. Wraps it over the nape of Derek’s neck and pulls his head lower, so Stiles can see over it to Peter.

He grins at Peter and the water ripples a little. Then Stiles twists Derek’s head so it’s pressed sideways against his chest, his fingers clamped tight over Derek’s throat. Derek has to come off his knees and ends up sprawled next to Stiles, his feet kicking into the maps. Stiles toes one away and then lifts his foot and hooks it over the nearer of Derek’s legs, pulling it further away from its mate.

“Spread,” Stiles says, and a flare spouts up through the stillness of Peter’s eyes and eats it like it’s paper. Stiles grins, holding Derek’s stuttering groan to his front, and crooks his free hand at Peter.

Peter lifts his head and drops his jaw in a wide, hungry smile. His fingers spread and flatten so his palms are touching the floor, and then he slinks across to them, coming up between Derek’s legs. He runs his hands right up Derek’s shins and over the knees till he’s leaning on Derek’s thighs. Comes within a lick of kissing Derek, who grinds his head back into Stiles in anticipation, and then pushes up for Stiles’ mouth instead.

He bites. Stiles bites back, reaching around to twist his fingers in Peter’s hair, and then drags Peter a bare inch away. He stretches his tongue out and flicks it over Peter’s lip, then over the man’s front teeth as Peter snarls and pushes at him, and then he shoves Peter back down.

Derek grunts, shifting up, then opens his mouth wide and catches the side of Peter’s jaw between his teeth. He closes down just enough to pinch, then snorts and cranes his head around to meet Peter squarely. They kiss fiercely, hands rising to grapple at each other, but jerk apart when Stiles hisses. Stiles gets his knee up under Derek and pushes his weight off, then pulls Derek’s head back against his shoulder.

Peter’s lips thin, but then he smiles. He twists down Derek, turning his body so his weight slides across Derek’s groin, spreads his hands along Derek’s thighs and flattens them back, even as Derek’s hooking his claws into Peter’s shoulders. One claw catches Peter’s tie and slices straight through it; Peter pauses to shake it off. He makes a tsking sound at Derek, his hands busy removing Derek’s belt, and then he cuts open the front of Derek’s trousers and brings out Derek’s cock with a delicately curled finger.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, when Derek starts to snarl. He pinches up the skin of Derek’s nape, digging his nails into the muscle running lengthwise under it. Then he jerks his chin at Peter. “Suck.”

Derek had shuddered at the grip on his neck, but he groans at that, long and thick. Peter laughs indulgently and bends to lick at Derek’s cock. Except Stiles pushes Derek away with a leg against the man’s hips.

“ _Suck_ ,” Stiles says.

Peter looks up. His claws slit into Derek’s trousers, and then he stoops and he sucks. Deep, slow swallows, his lips brushing up against the snarls of hair peeking out from under the torn cloth. He kneads Derek’s thighs, pinning them still when Derek tries to buck up, moaning and swearing.

Stiles rocks his own hips and Peter’s head cocks. Then Peter reaches over, but Stiles lets go of Derek’s neck to slap Peter’s hand away. Peter snorts, sounding amused, and then, when that sends a violent shiver through Derek, he makes a muffled crooning noise that has Derek drawing blood on his shoulders.

“Stop,” Stiles says, pulling on Derek’s neck. Then he reaches down and shoves at Peter’s shoulder.

Derek whimpers but he tries to push away from Peter, back into Stiles. Peter glances up but he doesn’t stop, not till Stiles hikes up a leg, braces a foot against his shoulder and bodily forces him off Derek’s cock. He throws out his hand and rakes up a few inches of carpet by Stiles before he catches himself, looking equal parts bemused and irritated.

He starts to push himself up, saying something, but Stiles still has his foot on Peter’s shoulder and uses it to make Peter go belly-down. Whatever Peter was saying turns into a surprised grunt; his eyes are hot and angry, and then just hot, hazy and hot like steam just above the boiling water, as Stiles grinds the heel of his foot into the join of Peter’s neck and shoulder.

Stiles shoulders Derek off, then gives him a push towards Peter. Derek slides back so he’s crouched by Peter’s head and Stiles motions for him to back up more. “Fuck,” Stiles says.

Peter breathes in sharply. His hands jerk and Derek’s head whips around, Derek’s clawed hands come up, but Peter just pushes his hands out from under him, so it’s harder for him to come off the ground. Derek looks at him, then at Stiles, and then lets out a short, incredulous laugh that brings a flicker of surprise, and a briefer flicker of amusement, to Peter’s eyes.

He twists himself so he’s hands and knees over Peter, looking again at Stiles. His hands go to Peter’s shoulders and he fingers the slashes he’d made, scratching at some of the bloodstains. Then he works back down, dragging his hands along Peter’s sides, till he’s at Peter’s hips. Peter turns his head and rubs his cheek into the carpet, lazy smile occasionally showing, eyes still burning at Stiles, and lifts his hips so Derek can pull down his trousers.

While Derek’s working him open, Peter starts inching his way towards Stiles. His breath touches Stiles’ shin and Stiles pulls his leg back, but just a little. Peter slides up so his mouth grazes Stiles’ ankle and Stiles shifts up against the couch, so Peter digs his claws into the carpet and then rides Derek’s initial thrust forward till his head is pillowed on Stiles’ thigh. Closer to the knee than the groin, and Stiles shoves his fingers into Peter’s hair before the man can climb any higher.

Peter arches his head into the grip as if strands of his hair aren’t ripping out. He humps back into Derek, causing the other man to lose his balance and have to let go of Peter’s hips to grab at the floor, then lolls down like he’s melting. 

Derek swears and jams his knees into the carpet, and drives up hard enough for Peter to gasp, then reaches around under Peter’s arms. Hooks his hands back over Peter’s shoulders and then hauls on them, pushing another gasp and then a shaking moan from Peter. His head dips lower and lower, till he’s finally grinding it against the back of Peter’s neck, sometimes his cheek, sometimes his teeth, sometimes his forehead, as he ruts into the other man.

He’s so forceful Stiles can’t keep his hold on Peter’s hair, not unless he wants it all to come off. Stiles lets go and Peter twists his head around, tries to suck at Stiles’ fingers, aware enough to take the chance even though his eyes are completely unfocused. He looks irritated when Stiles laughs and pulls his hand away, then twists as if he’s been electrified, just because Stiles grabs him by the neck.

Peter slides off of Stiles’ leg, and takes Derek with him. Derek curses and scrabbles at Peter’s sides, trying to keep them together, and Peter fights him for a few seconds, working to crawl back onto Stiles. He only stops when he sees that Stiles is pushing off the couch and easing himself down beside the other two.

Then he tries to turn himself and Derek onto their sides. Stiles snaps out his arm and seizes Peter by the neck again, stopping him. Then he drags himself up to Peter. He gouges his thumbnail along Peter’s throat hard enough to leave a bloody scrape, then runs the pad of his thumb down the healed line to get up the blood. Sticks his thumb into Peter’s mouth, grinning as Peter’s eyelids flutter and the man moans, sucking that clean.

Then Stiles does push Peter over onto his side. Derek thumps down behind Peter, throwing his leg over Peter’s waist and cursing, but he’s still far enough inside the other man to keep Peter from bending after Stiles. Because Stiles is pushing himself down till his head’s level with Peter’s hips and hard, flushed cock.

Stiles wraps his hand around Peter’s cock, then sets the nails of his other hand against the bared skin of Derek’s hip. “Come _on_ ,” he snaps, ripping his nails down.

He squeezes the base of Peter’s cock just as Derek spasms, muffling a cry into Peter’s back. Derek has his arm over Peter at this point, not that that would keep the man from breaking away if Peter really wanted to. And Peter wants to, his chin jerks out and his eyes look crazed, and his forearms even smack up against Derek’s barring arm, but Stiles looks at him and he doesn’t.

Stiles laughs at him, because honestly, for a second it looks like Peter hates him, the need is that intense in Peter’s eyes, and then he flops down on his free arm. Leans over, lifting Peter’s cock out of the way, and sinks his teeth deep into Peter’s thigh. Then he pushes himself back and he gives Peter’s cock a stroke as he goes, and Peter shivers viciously, rolling his face into the carpet as he comes.

Derek’s recovered enough to lift his head as Stiles crawls back up to lean against the couch. He frowns as Stiles absently rubs an arm against one side, and then tries to sit up when Stiles reaches down to undo the front of his own trousers.

Peter jerks, then looks up. Stiles puts his foot over the one wrist of Peter’s that’s closest to him, rubs his fingers through Peter’s hair again to get some of the pomade that’s sweated out, then gives his cock a few leisurely pulls. Then sinks back into the couch, letting himself sigh and just enjoy how fucking good he feels for a second.

It is exactly one second. Then he feels something under his foot. Peter doesn’t attempt to pull his hand free, but he does hitch up, licking his lips and staring at Stiles’ hand. Stiles snorts and then holds it out, and Derek pulls out of Peter—roughly, judging from Peter’s snarl—and fights with the other man to lick up the most come from Stiles’ hand.

While they’re doing that, Stiles puts his free hand into his trouser pocket, but it’s empty. He pats around and finds where his cigarettes and lighter have fallen out, then pulls out a cigarette with his mouth. He drops the case to the side and lights up.

Peter snorts pointedly. Stiles looks down, then drags on his cigarette just as pointedly. “Derek dealt with it, Laura even stole one. You can deal with it.”

“She didn’t smoke it,” Peter says. He’s a little breathless but his bored confidence is back. “She just wanted to see why on earth someone who knows about werewolves would have that kind of habit. Thought perhaps there was something special about them.”

Stiles takes his cigarette out and looks at it, then lowers it to Peter’s mouth. “Want to see?”

Peter regards the cigarette as if it’s somewhere between a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe and a small, yapping dog at his heel. His eyes flick to Stiles, and then he snorts again. Tilts his head up and wraps his lips slowly around it, and sucks so his cheeks briefly hollow.

Stiles smiles and pulls the cigarette away. He has another drag himself, then grins at Derek.

“Not interested,” Derek says, though he’s not resisting as Stiles pulls him over by the shoulder.

Their mouths are almost touching when Derek stiffens. He tries to look down, where Peter is making a strange snuffling noise, and then his eyes shoot to the tip of Stiles’ cigarette and the purple smoke coming from it. He starts to say something and Stiles grabs him by the back of the head, blows a lungful of smoke into Derek’s shocked, slack mouth.

Then Stiles pulls quickly away, just as Derek rakes claws at him in a last-ditch effort. He does give Derek’s head a little tug so Derek doesn’t fall where he’ll suffocate Peter.

Stiles stands up and puts out the cigarette, then tidies himself. He’s feeling a little woozy himself, despite sucking off all the antidote on the cigarette paper before giving it to Peter, so he shakes a pill out of his cigarette case. Pops it in his mouth and washes it down with some of the leftover coffee, then straightens up again. 

“I really wish Scott had given you a chance,” he says to the paralyzed men lying at his feet. “But you know, I think you could’ve given him more of one, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

When Stiles gets back to his hotel, the front desk lets him know that they’d sent up the meal he’d ordered. He thanks the clerk, tips him, and then heads up to his room.

The hallway outside of it is clear. He frowns for a moment, then laughs. Then he unlocks his room door and walks in.

There’s a tray of empty dishes sitting on the dresser, and Chris Argent is sitting on the edge of the bed. He lifts his head—he’d been holding it between his hands—as Stiles comes in, but he doesn’t otherwise move. He’s wearing a cheap suit, slightly too large for him, and Stiles’ gun is lying on the sheets behind him.

“You knew I was coming back,” he says.

“Well, if you weren’t, I’d have a snack for later, and we’d catch up eventually,” Stiles says. “Lydia wasn’t any trouble, was she?”

“Were you keeping in touch with her?” Argent says. He gets up and follows Stiles into the bathroom. Comes in all the way, and sits on the toilet to watch Stiles pull a waterproofed bag from the water tank and start making up fresh packets of powder. He also looks like he ate more than just the meal Stiles had waiting for him, but he’s still moving as if it’s the first time he’s moved in years. “I’m pretty sure she wanted to ditch me in a hole, but she seemed to think it mattered that you might not like that.”

“No, I wasn’t talking to her. She just owed me for breaking my heart before.” Stiles puts the fresh packets into his suit-coat pockets and hangs the coat over the door knob, then puts the rest back into the bag and the bag back into the tank. “Not that we’re sweethearts or anything, all right, but it’s not like she’ll ever be around again to ask. Anyway, I owed her for being stupid enough to tell her how I truly felt about her.”

Argent presses his lips together, then snorts. Then he rubs at the side of his face. He’s shaved, or at least tried to shave, and the wildman’s beard is gone but there are still uneven patches of stubble over his cheeks and jaw.

Well, they have time to kill. Stiles gets out his brand-new razor, the cake of shaving cream and the brush, and lathers Argent up. At first the man seems torn between flinching and asking what the hell Stiles is doing, but the moment Stiles wraps his hand around Argent’s chin, Argent just settles into it with a diffident shrug.

“You were talking to someone,” Argent says, when Stiles pulls the blade away to wipe it off. “Somebody here.”

“Scott,” Stiles says, as he slides his fingers and thumb around Argent’s ear in a pincer vise.

Argent doesn’t move, although his eyes widen and he stops breathing for a few seconds. He tracks the razor as it comes over his face and then down at a rough patch just under the left side of his jaw.

“When I moved to Chicago, I…fell in with an interesting crowd, I guess you could say,” Stiles says. He pushes at Argent’s skin with his thumb, stretching it taut so he can work the blade as close to the roots as possible. “They showed me a couple tricks with mirrors. At first it was just a fun secret to have, you know, just something for me and him. Then he got bitten and, well, Scott didn’t seem to realize what a bloodthirsty bunch of sons of bitches you all are till the very end, but I saw it pretty early. I thought it might be a good idea to keep a private line open, so to speak.”

“You were helping him,” Argent says. “You were telling him how to deal with Gerard. That weapon Jackson said Scott had made, you told him how to do it.”

“Well, I tried to help him.” Stiles stops with the razor still lying against Argent’s throat. He watches it rise and fall as Argent carefully, slowly swallows, and then he pulls it away. Runs his thumb absently over the freshly-shaved patch. Then he remembers it’s not his own throat and he steps back, cleans the razor and his hands off on a towel. “Scott was, you know, stubborn. He wouldn’t tell me everything that was going on, and what he did tell me, he always tried to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. He really didn’t want me to worry about him.”

He glances over Argent and decides he’s evened things up enough, and tosses the man a damp towel. Argent catches it and twists it in the air, then begins to mop it at his face.

“So that thing Jackson was talking about, it’s a belt,” Stiles says. He grins when Argent yanks down the towel and stares at him. “Boobytrap to replace the one that’s falling apart on your father. Sneaky, but a little on the slow side. Scott didn’t want to just go at Gerard, I’m guessing because he was worried about Allison. There are faster ways to kill him.”

The shock grows in Argent’s face, then levels out. Then, surprisingly enough, it fades, and fades so quick that it’s completely gone by the time Stiles recognizes what’s going on.

He frowns and Argent stands up. The man flips the towel in his hand, then puts it down by the sink. “When?” he says.

“Soon as you can get hold of your father,” Stiles says, startled. Then he sucks in his breath, because Argent’s already pushing past him.

He grabs the man’s arm and pulls him back, and of all things, Argent actually pushes at him. It’s not that hard, more irritation than real resistance, but Stiles is so surprised he drops his hands to Argent’s wrists and throws his body forward, pinning the other man against the sink.

Argent grunts hard, but he’s dropping his arms almost as soon as Stiles has hold of them. All the fight’s in his voice. “I’m not running,” he snaps. “I’ll get him for you.”

“You’re different,” Stiles says. He laughs a little sheepishly when Argent throws him an incredulous look, but keeps his weight shifted forward. “Well, not that it’s not helpful, but it’s a little late in the day for surprises. You spend days curled up in your daughter’s bedroom with a bottle and now you’re raring to go again?”

Anger flares in Argent’s eyes at the word ‘daughter’ and Stiles gets ready to crack his head forward first. But then Argent just smiles. It’s bitter as hell and sharper than death’s scythe, and it’s so alive it seems like it’s clawing to get off his face at Stiles.

“You thought I’d be coming back,” he says. “Who were you expecting to get?”

Stiles takes in a breath, pauses, and then laughs again. “I figured you’d want it to be over with.”

“I do.” Argent’s brows rise. Then he glances down, first at one trapped hand and then the other. The bandages are gone and his wrists feel swollen under Stiles’ fingers, hot and yielding. He twists one slightly, then raises his eyes and the way he’s looking at Stiles makes those wrists feel like an Arctic winter. “You know what you’re doing, you have this whole time.”

“I don’t think you do,” Stiles says.

“I don’t, but how much do you care?” Argent says. “I know I’m not right in the head for making decisions. I don’t care. I stopped caring a while ago. Just never got around to looking it in the face, till you showed up.”

Stiles snorts. “You know, honestly, I really just wanted to know if you can hold it together when you talk to Gerard. Don’t give me the heart to heart.”

Argent’s lips thin. Then he shrugs and _then_ he twists forward and kisses the hell out of Stiles.

It’s better than the one in the garage. Miles better. It’s focused heat, applied with skill, and it makes Stiles a little shaky before he catches himself. He grinds into Argent and the man moans, spreads his knees and splays up into it.

Then he snarls, his arms clattering into the mirror and against the side of the sink, as Stiles spins him around. He keeps his head from bashing the glass but his hand knocks the tap on. He doesn’t knock it off, instead canting his hips back as Stiles slides up against his ass, pressing his own erection into the dip between Argent’s buttocks. Argent arches his back and the red sore around his throat jumps out of his shirt-collar.

The sink’s just low enough for Stiles to get Argent’s trousers undone and shove them down to mid-hip. Argent hikes himself up over the sink, pushing his cock into Stiles’ hand, and Stiles gets the last inch he needs to rub a thumb over Argent’s hole. He flicks it with his thumbnail, then catches his mouth over that raw line across Argent’s throat and sucks till Argent is shivering.

He pushes his fingers at Argent’s mouth and Argent laves at them, then hisses as Stiles probes between his buttocks. It’s not enough, though Argent’s trying to force his way past the pain. Stiles curses and fumbles around the sink, comes up the hotel’s bottle of hair oil and loses the bottle in the sink but gets enough of it on his fingers to do.

Then he fucks Argent on his fingers till the man’s slumped into the mirror. Argent’s head comes back up for Stiles’ cock pressing into him, then goes down as he tries to burrow into his reflection. He’s flushed, his nose and mouth wiping ragged lines through the fog his breath leaves on the glass. He rolls his hips into Stiles and groans, then tilts his head as Stiles fucks him, drags his arm up across the mirror, and bites into his forearm. Moans around it till one of Stiles’ thrusts knocks his head up. His reflection has bloody teeth, and then he huffs so it mists out, coming with a low, choked sound.

Stiles comes just a little after. He jams his arm against the wall beside them and just keeps himself from falling onto Argent, who’s turning the tap on and off as he shakes on his arms.

“I know—” Argent starts. He coughs, then leans his head against the mirror. His back stiffens as Stiles eases out, and then he lets out a long, tired sigh. “Look. However you’re doing me, just…get it over with. I know you blame me for Scott but if I—if I’ve helped you at all—”

“Go call your father,” Stiles says. He forces his breath to steady, then grabs Argent’s shoulder so when he backs up, he pulls the other man straight. “Get out and get him. Tell him to meet us in front of the Hales’ building. I need to clean myself up.”

Argent half-turns, then staggers and has to grab at the sink for balance. He drops back against the wall and looks at Stiles, blinking away the haze in his eyes. “You look fine, not a mark on you,” he says, with a black, but amused, twist to his voice. He didn’t twitch when Stiles mentioned the Hales but he does when Stiles reaches for a towel. “You do blame me.”

Stiles hears the question Argent can’t quite suppress. His hand clenches on the towel and he has to take a deep, obvious breath in order to get it to loosen. “Well, you didn’t like Scott, did you.”

“I wanted him to stay away from Allison,” Argent says after a moment. His voice is softer, slower. Sadder. “I never got to know him. I didn’t want to. But I didn’t want—I didn’t want anyone to die like that. I was scared, Stiles. I was a coward, I know. My father—if I hadn’t been—”

“Just call him,” Stiles says, closing his eyes.

Argent doesn’t move for a few seconds. When he finally does, his steps are slow and heavy, but they don’t stop till they’re deep into the next room. Stiles hears the click of the phone coming off the hook, and then Argent asking for the operator.

He opens his eyes. The mirror still is streaked with fog, and there’s a few splashes of blood, too. Stiles reaches out with the towel, then yanks back his hand. He puts his head to his temple, digs his fingers into his scalp, and then shakes himself. Uses the towel to clean himself up, because if he’s paid the hotel staff enough to get creative about fending off both Gerard and the Hales, he’s certainly paid them enough to deal with the mess he’ll be leaving in the room.

When Stiles comes out, Argent has just finished up the call. His hands are shaking and he squeezes them against his knees, then hears Stiles. He doesn’t look up. “He’ll be over in an hour,” he says.

Stiles sits down on the bed next to Argent. “Thank you.”

Argent’s head snaps around. He angles himself slightly away from Stiles, but stills when Stiles takes him by the arm. “Is that what you needed me back for?” he says.

“I didn’t _need_ you back,” Stiles says. Then he sighs. “But all right, I did want you. It makes it a lot easier to figure out which way I want to do this.”

“Do what?” Argent says.

Stiles snorts. “Honestly, it’s _very_ late to be asking that,” he says, and then he yanks Argent up against him.

Argent picks now, of all times, to fight. He snarls and bunches himself up, then gets in a couple credible blows to Stiles’ midsection before the blood loss turns him too weak. When Stiles drops him, he falls back onto the bed, but then slips off it to the floor. He grabs at his neck and shoulder and then slumps into the bedside table, staring up at Stiles.

Stiles’ gun is still on the bed, and Argent twitches a little, a flash of chagrin pushing up through his horror and pain, when Stiles reaches over and picks it up. Then he throws up his free arm; Stiles rolls his eyes and drags it out of the way, then clubs Argent in the head with the butt of the gun. The man promptly goes unconscious and Stiles sets to work.

* * *

Laura rushes out of the elevator and down the hall towards the penthouse doors, covering almost half the distance before she notices Stiles, even though he’s standing right in front of them. She slows down, then resumes her hurry, yanking off her coat and her hat as she stalks up to Stiles.

“Are you getting into this?” she says. “Look, I don’t have time—”

She pauses, then looks at Stiles again, realizing what’s missing—his injuries—and that’s when Gerard steps out from the decorative niche and jams his claws into her back. Laura’s eyes widen in horror and rage, and she makes a leap at Stiles, then half-whirls. But the distraction’s enough to let Gerard rake her again, deep slashes over one thigh and her side. Then he grabs her by the arms. He twists them behind her back and Stiles hears the clink of chains a second before he opens the door.

Derek and Peter are awake, but otherwise they’re where Stiles left them, in the middle of a big circle of mountain ash. They’re chained with their arms behind their backs, and a short chain going from their wrists down to their ankles, keeping them doubled up, and he linked their chains as well, so they’re facing away from each other. But they do have enough slack so that they can both watch as Gerard carries Laura through the door, even though they have to contort to do it.

Peter looks murderous and then nearly powers through the drugs in his blood into a shift, just out of sheer rage when he sees Gerard. Derek, on the other hand, sees the blood on Gerard’s claws and he freezes, then lets out a disbelieving, terrified noise.

“Well, my dear boy,” Gerard says, dropping Laura on the ground. He looks supremely delighted with the scene before him, his eyes licking obscenely over the three prone werewolves. “I have to—”

While Gerard was hauling in Laura, Stiles was pulling a thick rubber glove onto his right hand. He tosses his bag to the side, keeping back only the dagger he’s just pulled out of it, then yanks it out of its metal case. Tosses that aside too, and steps up just as Gerard’s turning towards him.

Gerard sees the glint of the dagger and whips around, fast enough to catch a human but too slow for Stiles, who seizes his arm and kicks Gerard’s leg out from under him. Then he stabs the dagger into the back of Gerard’s neck, cracking it firmly in between the vertebrae.

The air whiffs at shin-level and Stiles jumps clear just as Gerard’s arm completes its swipe. Then the limb flops to the floor, jittering around as Gerard spasms and jerks. It’s pretty violent for a few seconds, especially as he’s coming out of a partial shift, but after that he settles quickly into a limp, drooling bundle, only his mouth and eyes moving.

Stiles goes back to his bag and gets out the other glove and a surgical mask, and a couple folded sheets of paper that he puts in his mouth while he pulls on the glove. Then he pulls out a set of knives.

“You helped him,” Laura rasps. The flesh showing through her ripped clothes is already going black, and she’s starting to shiver like a fever victim. “Why—”

“Stiles,” Derek says desperately, having managed to chew through his gag. “Stiles, Stiles, please, Laura’s—”

Gerard hawks and then spits, but he can only move his lips so it mostly comes back onto his face. He’s furious, furious and he keeps glowering at himself as if he’ll be able to will his limbs to move. It makes Stiles laugh and Gerard’s gaze snaps to him. “What did you _do_?” he says.

Stiles carries the knives over and lays them out on a convenient footstool, then takes the papers out of his mouth. “I said I was going to kill you,” he says, unfolding them. “You killed Scott.”

“You? You, kill me?” Despite all evidence to the contrary, Gerard sounds certain that that is absolutely absurd. “You’re a little boy. Your naïve friend couldn’t do the job. Died screaming. And you won’t either. You’ll die, and they’ll die, and then I’ll track down anyone else he knew, even his alpha, wherever that pathetic—”

“ _I’m_ his alpha,” Stiles says, snarling. He turns and he finally lets his damn eyes bleed red.

It shuts Gerard up. He stares at Stiles, who can’t help a snort as he weights the papers down with the smaller knives.

“And for your information, I _do_ know how to kill you,” Stiles says. He fingers over the knives, then picks out one and gets up. Goes over and stands above Gerard. “Blood from blood kin, smeared all over that stiletto, that’s what’ll keep you from healing. Jesus, you idiot, somebody wrote down that spell for you to find it, did you think you were the only one who knew about it?”

“Stiles.” It’s Peter. He’s twisted around as far as the chains will let him, trying to look Stiles in the eye. His face and his voice are calm but it’s the kind of calm that’s stretched paper thin and vibrating over sharp points. “Stiles. We didn’t kill your beta—”

“You did enough.” And when Peter looks like he’s going to go on, Stiles bends down and cuts off two of Gerard’s fingers. He picks them up and holds them where Laura can see them. “I’m dealing with him first. You’re not going to die before I’m done, you know that, so either your brother and your uncle shut up, or I’ll skid my shoe into the ash circle and go over and stick these in them.”

Laura’s already pale and she goes close to bloodless at that. She nods tightly, then heaves her head up to look at the other two. Derek’s got blood dribbling from where he’s chewing his lip to pieces over and over again and he jerks back like her gaze is a slap. Shakes his head. Peter hisses wordlessly at him, then goes back to watching Stiles like someone very dear to him is being flayed alive.

But neither of them say anything. So Stiles turns back to Gerard, who finally seems to be getting worried.

“You’re going to kill me,” Gerard says, still faintly incredulous. “You. The cancer didn’t kill me, other alphas couldn’t kill me. Whole packs couldn’t stand against me.”

“I handled a pack too, full of alphas, and I was human for most of it,” Stiles says dryly. “You really don’t understand. You think it’s crazy out here, you should try Chicago.”

Then he drops Gerard’s fingers. He pulls the surgical mask over his head and adjusts the strings so it won’t slip off, then steps back to consult the papers. When Gerard starts to speak, Stiles shakes his head, then pulls the mask down. “It’s not a spell, it’s Scott’s autopsy photos and report. Don’t want to miss anything.”

He pushes the mask back up, then goes and bends over Gerard.

For all his bravado, it doesn’t take long at all for Gerard to start screaming. It’s a good thing that the silencing runes on the place are top-notch, didn’t need a single touch from Stiles.

It’s messy. Stiles has to swap his mask out twice, and wipe the gloves off every couple of minutes. He starts building a little pile of bloodied refuse by the footstool. Gerard’s blood gets on his coat and he has to stop and take off the gloves, then the coat, and then he has to put a fresh pair of gloves on. So it’s slow, too, and by the time he gets up off his knees, satisfied with his work, over a half-hour has gone by.

Gerard’s still alive, but only just. Stiles pulls off one glove but leaves the other on, and then turns to Laura. 

“So how’s it end?” Stiles says.

She’s coughing up black sticky fluid and it’s matting her hair to her mouth and cheek, and she has trouble speaking through it. Derek starts to answer for her, only to cry out amid a rattle of chains—Peter intervening—and Laura musters up enough effort to rub the hair off her lips. “He suffocated.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Come on, don’t—”

“He suffocated,” Laura says again, more forcefully. “We lied, he was still alive when Gerard dumped him, but he was too far gone. He shoved that—that belt at me, and he told me he’d just been trying to help, and I—damn it, Stiles, he was going to die anyway, it wasn’t as painful for him. I didn’t want him to go like Cora, whatever he’d been doing.”

“But you were mad at him, right?” Stiles says. He goes over and squats down by her head. Peels some of her hair away from her face. “You were mad, too.”

“We didn’t know what he was doing! We spent _years_ watching our backs, I wasn’t going to let—” Then Laura sees his face. She stills, anger fighting with fear in her eyes, and then she jerks away from him. Looks at her family. “It was me. It was me, all right? I covered up his nose and mouth. It was me, you can stop with me—”

“ _Laura_.” It’s Peter, surprisingly enough, who lets out that strangled word, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You can’t, Stiles, you can’t, please,” Derek chimes in. He’s fighting to get to the side of the circle, as close to them as he can get, to the point of dragging Peter with him. “Please, I’ll do—we’ll do anything—she’s my _sister_ —”

Stiles looks at the bloody, barely moving mess that’s Gerard, then takes off the glove. He tosses that with the knife into the refuse pile, then settles back by Laura.

“You know, he refused to stay with me. I’ve been trying for years and years to get him to come back. I’ve had the money for a while, I could’ve taken care of him and his mom,” he says. He smiles at Laura’s startled look. “Well, never said I was a good alpha, did I. It’s funny, he forgave me for biting him, but he couldn’t forgive me for killing the sick bastards who made me bite him in the first place. Said I was too cruel.”

“If that was the Alpha pack you mean, I don’t see how that could be true,” Laura says slowly. Then she winces. He arms hitch as she lets out a ragged, rattling breath.

Stiles shrugs. “To each their own, and Scott was…he wasn’t just my beta. He was the only person I ever wanted to bite. I mean, when it happened, it wasn’t—you know, planned, at least not by us, but even after that…I never bit anyone else. Never wanted to. When he first left, it felt like somebody had cut off my arm, and it’s never really gotten any better.”

“That’s pack,” Derek says, very softly.

Laura stiffens when she hears him, then hurriedly looks up at Stiles. “Why would you even—”

“Because he didn’t want to stay.” Then Stiles laughs under his breath. “That’s what I mean. I fucking hated him for it, I thought about forcing him, I _knew_ I could, and he’d even think he was happy—fuck, you kill three alphas in one go, you sure as hell get something for it—but I couldn’t do that to him. I wanted him to be happy and I didn’t want it to be a lie.”

“Stiles,” Laura says, after a long silence. “Stiles. I owe you a life. But—”

“You owe me more than that. You owe me the only goddamn reason I ever held back,” Stiles says, getting up.

He takes a pillow off one of the chairs, then walks back to Gerard. The old man is barely conscious enough to see, but his eyes focus just as the pillow comes down over them, and they’re terrified.

Stiles kneels with his knee on the pillow till Gerard stops moving, and then for a couple minutes after. Then he stands up. He kicks the pillow to the refuse pile and pulls out a couple packets. Sprinkles their contents over Gerard and the trash, and waits for it to all go to grey dust.

Then he packs up. He slings his bag onto his shoulder and he’s about to turn towards the door when there’s a couple sharp inhales, and one beginning of a shout. He thinks they’re just realizing that he’s going to leave them to die, so he’s genuinely surprised when he finds Chris Argent slumped in the doorway, clinging to the jamb and holding Stiles’ gun.

It looks like Argent just wadded up a towel under his suit-coat, but he didn’t tie it down or anything, so the towel’s sticking to him just by virtue of all the blood soaked into it. Long red stains streak down the front of his shirt and coat his hand and the gun. His eyes are bleary and he’s got sweat running down his face, even though he’s shivering and pale as ice.

“Just shoot them,” Argent says. He ignores the snarling coming from behind Stiles and makes a frantic gesture, then curses and grabs onto the doorway again. “Goddamn it, Stiles, it’ll take days otherwise.”

“ _Now_ you’re protesting,” Stiles says.

Argent’s lips peel back from his teeth. He’s not smiling, he’s getting ready to try and rip out Stiles’ throat. “You can’t do this, Stiles. You can’t. I sat and I watched my father drag this on and on, and—no.”

Stiles takes a step towards him. Argent heaves up the gun like it weighs a full ton, but he’s got it sighted squarely at Stiles’ chest.

“I gave you _one_ bullet,” Stiles says.

“I just want it to end,” Argent hisses. His eyes are wild and electric. They’d be beautiful if he weren’t being so stupid.

He swings the gun towards Laura and Stiles jerks the bag from his shoulder and flings it at Argent. The shot goes wide and then Stiles has Argent by the arms. He slams Argent up against the jamb—that alone makes Argent drop the gun—then tosses him back into the room.

Argent hits a chair, then falls to the floor amid the wet crack of bone. His eyes roll back into his head, but then, somehow, he drags his head forward and manages to focus on Stiles. “This isn’t going to help!” he snaps. “I know Scott meant a lot to you, but it doesn’t help. Wallowing. It doesn’t, and wallowing in blood’s no different than doing it in booze, damn it. You’re going to up and drown yourself before you know it.”

“Well, who goddamn cares!” Stiles snaps back. “What, you?”

“I followed you. Got over here,” Argent says.

Stiles laughs. It’s a little hysterical but he really, really can’t help it, because God, this is beyond absurd. For a moment he thinks this has to be another dimension, a science fiction story, something like that, because even he’s not this insane. “I _bit_ you, you asshole. And you were supposed to kill yourself. That’s what you Argents _do_.”

“I’m not going to. You want to kill me, fine, but I’m not doing it.” Argent rolls gingerly over onto his back. He looks a little sick, then swallows hard and stares up at Stiles. “I _can’t_ , damn you. I can’t. You woke me up.”

“I fucking—” Stiles jerks around. He stares at the open door and the hall beyond it, wondering why he isn’t just walking out.

“Stiles,” Peter says.

“And you. You were right, all along,” Stiles snarls, slinging back around. He jabs his finger at Peter, who actually flinches, and then looks wildly at Derek and Laura. “I _was_ out to get you. And you _fucking_ had to keep trying. You—I _like_ you, you know, and you had to be so goddamn fucking _stupid_ about Scott—”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Stiles, we’re—we’re sor—”

“He was my _friend_ ,” Stiles says, his voice cracking. He slaps his hand against his chest, and even gets so far as to shred his shirt before catching himself. He just—hates how he sounds. All raw and broken. “Scott was my _pack_ , and you—you couldn’t just let him be. Goddamn you. Goddamn all of you, all of you.”

He takes a step back, running out of breath. His eyes sting and he lifts his hand to wipe at them, and it’s shaking. He puts it down and pushes it against his leg, then bends over and grabs his knees. His breathing is out of control, and he finally has to prick himself to calm down. By then his legs are shaking so bad he has to sit.

“I hate you,” he rasps. He rubs at his eyes again, then runs his hand over the top of his head. “I hate you. Fuck, I hate you.”

“If you can’t, I’ll do it for you,” Argent says very quietly. “Just let me help, Stiles.”

Stiles jerks his head up. Then he jerks the rest of himself up. He goes over to Argent, who sucks in a breath and then closes his eyes as Stiles grabs him by the throat. But Stiles can’t even pull him up to the point that he would choke. He just stares at the man for a couple seconds, at how _slack_ Argent is, just waiting for it, and then he lets go. He backs away, sees Derek and Peter staring at him and stumbles back.

He snarls, twisting around, and then he’s facing Laura. She’s just as calm and just as accepting as Argent, and Stiles—he thinks he’s going to kill them, just for another moment. He’s so angry and it almost blots out the rest.

“Goddamn you,” he finally says. He drags his hand over his face again, then goes to his bag and gets out a flat leather case. Then he crosses over to kneel down by Laura. He flips open the case and pulls out the syringe and one of the vials that’s inside, then loads the vial’s contents into the syringe. “I hope you burn in hell.”

Argent stirs enough to look over, then starts. “You—used that on me,” he says, confused. “Put something in me.”

“No, I took from you,” Stiles mutters. He flicks the needle to get rid of air bubbles, then stoops over Laura. Somebody, probably Derek, whines, but Laura just sighs. “Blood from blood kin who’s turning or turned will weaken Gerard, and it’ll heal his victims.”

Laura’s eyes bloom wide. She doesn’t seem to notice the needle slipping into her flesh, although mere seconds after Stiles has injected her, she seizes up. 

Derek calls out in alarm but it’s over as quickly as it happens. Her breathing steadies, her skin starts to flush again, and her eyes flash blue. She stiffens, feeling it. 

“I’m beta,” she whispers.

“I hope you live, and live and live, and see everybody else die on you,” Stiles says bitterly. He gets up, then snarls to himself as he recrosses the room and uses the case to break the ash ring. Then he turns away, slamming the syringe and empty vial back in the case. “I could have saved him. If somebody had told—called me. If you’d waited I could’ve _saved_ him.”

Somebody shouts his name, but Stiles doesn’t stop till he’s down in the lobby, and even then, it’s just to get a car called for him. He goes from there straight to the train station, and doesn’t get off the train till he’s back in Chicago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is referring to the practice of scrying using mirrors, which was supposedly able to both foretell the future, decipher the past, and allow instantaneous communication over distance.


	6. Epilogue

_Three months later_

Two of the guards are patting down a third man. They’re being rough about it, jamming their hands up into the man’s armpits, knocking his hat off when he stiffens. The tips of his claws show for a second, then withdraw as his fingers curl slowly down into his palms.

“Hey, Stilinski,” the guard on the left says, spotting Stiles. He moves out of the way for the men carrying in the crates. “This one here says he knows you.”

Stiles leans against the wall and shakes out a cigarette. “He’s my beta,” he says, lighting up.

The guard freezes. His partner jerks his hands off the man’s hips, turning a pie-eyed look of surprise onto Stiles. He opens and closes his mouth, then coughs back a sound of alarm and scrambles as far from the man as he can get. The other guard snatches up a revolver and a couple knives from a nearby crate and holds them out towards the man, hands shaking, face white as milk.

Chris Argent turns around. He ignores the guard holding out his weapons to pick up his hat, which he dusts off and then reshapes against his thigh. He’s lean instead of gaunt, healthy under the grimness, and somebody’s taken him to a proper barber and tailor. The suit’s a muted grey tweed, too conservative for Chicago but as he steps towards Stiles, his coat pulls away to show a gold watch chain tucked into his vest and more gold glints at his cuffs.

“Peter took you shopping?” Stiles says. When Argent’s close enough, he takes his cigarette out of his mouth and then reaches out with his hand at shoulder-level and its fingers half-curled.

A flicker of surprise goes through Argent’s eyes, but there’s no hesitation as he crooks his neck into Stiles’ grip, lets himself be pulled up flat against Stiles. He tucks his head over Stiles’ shoulder and makes the appropriate whuffing noise when Stiles scents him; he’s trembling the way somebody does when their nerves have spent all day strung tight and are just now releasing, but the others can’t see it.

“It looks nice.” Stiles nudges him back, then sucks at the cigarette. He lets the smoke float out his nose.

Argent’s mouth twists, mostly in amusement. He inhales a little when the smoke reaches him and then doesn’t recoil. “You left your baggage,” he says. 

“Did I?” Stiles says, looking him over.

From the way Argent tenses, he sees exactly how much of that is friendly, but he just nods to the side. Stiles turns and sees his bag, and then sees an unfamiliar chest. It’s too small to be somebody’s traveling chest, except for maybe a day trip.

“Scott’s things,” Argent says, when Stiles doesn’t move.

Stiles looks sharply at him. Then he goes over to the chest. The lock’s already undone so the boys must have checked it over, but Stiles puts out the cigarette and then uses the tip of his gun to push up the lid. He looks inside, then lets the lid drop and steps back.

He stands and looks at the chest for a while. The men hauling in the crates ask him a couple questions about how the shipment’s going to be divided up, then cringe away when he snaps at them. The foreman, who’s lasted over two years in the job, has the sense to slide up a crate next to Stiles and crowbar it open before he asks another question.

Inside the crate is a layer of Bibles, and then under those is a crossed pair of tommy guns and some ammunition strips. Stiles pulls out the guns, checks them over and then hands them to the foreman, who takes them away. Then he picks up one of the ammunition strips. He slides out a bullet and unscrews the top, asking for somebody to get him some whiskey.

He’s brought a bottle and a couple of metal mugs, probably from somebody’s lunch kit. The man apologizes and offers to run up the street for some proper glasses, but Stiles turns him down. Then he divides the powder in the bullet equally between the mugs, adds whiskey, and holds out a mug.

Argent takes it and sips at it. Then he lowers the mug and peers into it. “This wolfsbane from the Carpathians?”

“Yep,” Stiles says, drinking his own.

“That’s expensive,” Argent murmurs. Then he looks over his shoulder, taking in the bustling men, the piles and piles of crates, the crowded warehouse.

“I got back and my employers were a little upset about the lack of notice about my vacation. Had to take over.” Then Stiles laughs, seeing Argent’s head snap back to him. “I didn’t mind, really. Kept me out of the house and on my feet. So where are the Hales?”

“They said they’d stay back at the hotel,” Argent says after a moment. He’s still watching Stiles like Stiles is a pinch of fizzing gunpowder, but he goes back to drinking his whiskey. “I was busy talking with your guards, I haven’t checked yet.”

Stiles snorts, though he knows the Hales are at least out of sight range, since none of the wards have tripped. They probably are trying to listen in, although the warehouse is noisy enough that that can’t be easy. For a second Stiles thinks about saying something just to test that. He’s amused about it, and then, like someone’s flipped a switch, he’s not, because now he’s thinking about them being amused, and remembering what they’d each looked like.

He just stops himself from crushing the mug, but he doesn’t feel like drinking anymore so he dumps out what’s left of his whiskey. Then he lights another cigarette, pulling deep and hard on it till the bitter smoke’s indistinguishable from the bitter taste already on his tongue.

“We wanted to speak about the Kansas wars, and how it’s disrupting supply,” Argent says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Like hell you do.”

Argent hesitates, then sets his whiskey on a nearby crate. He glances at it a moment longer—that guard had given up and just set Argent’s weapons down on the same crate—then turns to Stiles. “I know, but if we can at least speak about business, then—”

“You’re here,” Stiles says. He stops, then sighs and puts out his damn cigarette. Then he turns to Argent. “I still fucking miss him, and I still hate all of you. But you’re here, I bit you, I know—you’re here. You came up—fine, call them in. We’ll see.”

He looks at Argent, who is perfectly still except for the disbelief and pained hope rumbling around in his eyes, a moment longer. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and turns away. The warehouse office is only a few yards to the left and he goes over to it, kicks out the foreman. Grabs that chest of Scott’s things and takes it into the office, and then leaves the door open.

Then Stiles sits down in the one chair. It’s beaten-up, stuffing coming out of the cushions, and when he tips it to prop his feet up on the chest, the joints creak and moan. Stiles grimaces and then slumps down. He stares at that limp yellow rectangle of light before the doorway.

A shadow crosses it, and then another. Stiles closes his eyes, listening to them come in. He takes a deep breath. Rubs his foot against the chest of all that’s left of Scott, and then he sits up and opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles being able to handle mountain ash: I don't think this actually contradicts the show (which, as always, is uneven about its mythology). I am not sure why no werewolf ever tries to just use a stick to break the ash rings, but Scott can clearly carry around mountain ash when it's encapsulated in pills and inside a pill case (for swapping on Gerard). And alpha!Peter can throw a chair _over_ an ash line at Deaton. So I'm taking the position that werewolves can handle mountain ash so long as they do it indirectly. Stiles keeps gloves around and doesn't draw circles around himself so he's good.
> 
> Stiles being a magic-user: He was already doing magic when he got bitten. I see no reason why he wouldn't be able to keep using magic after becoming a werewolf (it seems like werewolves in the show don't only because they historically are used to having secret druid helpers to do it for them), and he certainly isn't the type of person who would drop something useful like that. Werewolf!Stiles absolutely is going to test the shit out of any loophole for werewolf weaknesses he can think of.
> 
> ETA: And thank you, melitta4ever for reminding me that Peter definitely used magic to resurrect himself (I'd count controlling his haunting of Lydia as magical, even if she was the one actually doing the spellwork we saw).
> 
> Alpha!Peter can apparently make his fire scars appear and disappear at will. I'm assuming that this is a power only alphas have, since I haven't seen it show up again.


End file.
